


Love, Run

by Unknown



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Badass Yennefer, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexual Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Broken Bones, Ciri has 2 dads, Ciri is their daughter, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Disabled Character, Drinking, Drunkenness, F/F, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, M/M, Meet the Family, Misunderstandings, Musical Jaskier, Mutual Pining, Nudity, Only One Bathtub, Only One Bed, Sharing a Bed, Song Lyrics, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Wedding Rings, Wedding date, canonical bias against witchers, fade to black sex scene, hangovers, julian alfred pankratz viscount de lettenhove - Freeform, magical heat stroke, mlm and wlw solidarity, mom!yennefer, parenting, wlw oc, wlw relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: Jaskier's and his partner's presence are requested at his sister's wedding - which is all well and good, except well. Jaskier may have made up a fake partner to keep his nosey family satisfied. Good thing Geralt is his best friend in the whole wide world and suggests they go together under the guise of a married couple. Which is also well and good, except... well, Jaskier may already be for real in love with him. What is being fake-married going to do to the poor bard's heart? Add a scheming, well-meaning Yennefer and an amused Ciri to the mix of Jaskier's exuberant family and it's definitely going to be an interesting week leading up to the wedding.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Original Female Character/Original Female Character, past Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 85
Kudos: 284





	1. Oh, Let The World Come At You, Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the [Geralt Jaskier Big Bang of 2020!!!!!](https://geraltjaskierbigbang.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I was blessed to be working with [youshouldreadwhatiread](https://youshouldreadwhatiread-blog.tumblr.com/) as my beta. I couldn't have done this without them. The wonderful [Zooks-trash](https://zooks-trash.tumblr.com) was my artist. 
> 
> This was such a wonderful experience. Special thanks to my friend [furtherandforever](https://furtherandforever.tumblr.com/) for watching the first few eps of The Witcher with me the last time I was in Brooklyn and for tolerating my ideas and _very_ long stories. She knows how I am. 
> 
> I made up a lot about Lettenhove, its customs, and its people, as well as Jaskier's background. If the titles and shit don't add up too well, don't look too hard. Story title and chapter titles come from The Amazing Devil's song: _Love Run_.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets a letter that changes everything. Geralt tries to be helpful and prove a point. Ciri is having the time of her life. And Jaskier's family wants him to invite... Yennefer???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to chapter 1! I hope y'all have a great time. Thanks for coming!

There’s one tavern Jaskier makes a point to visit almost every other month. Even if it’s just in passing, even if he has to leave Geralt and Ciri to their own devices for a few days. It’s the tavern that his letters get sent to, if he has any - the address he gives when prospective patrons show interest. Usually it’s junk or sometimes, even threats. There’s a bit of fan mail that gets left as well, perfume or cologne soaked envelopes, flowers pressed to the paper.

This time, Geralt and Ciri come with him. In the morning, he creeps out of bed, stepping around Geralt’s prone body on the floor - it had been the Witcher’s turn for the pallet this past night. Ciri sleeps in the little bed adjacent, and shifts in the early morning light filtering in from the window. Jaskier tidies himself, washes his face in the basin by the door, then heads down to the bar. He’s been decent friends with the barkeep since he started out on his own. The man sees him, nods, hands him a stack of letters, and slides him a cup of some concoction of roasted, ground _coffea_ beans steeped in boiling water. The drink always leaves him with a boost of energy. Jaskier takes the steaming, clay mug and the letters bound together in twine, nods his thanks, and heads back upstairs. Geralt is already sitting up on his pallet, stretching his neck with sick pops and cracks. 

“One day, those bones won’t go back the way they’re supposed to,” Jaskier muses as he sits on the bed. He pulls his feet under him and starts to go through the letters. Absentmindedly, he hands Geralt his steaming mug as he walks by, offering a taste. Geralt takes it without question and sips at it, humming in approval before handing it back. Jaskier, for a moment, basks in the trust the other man has for him. 

And then all thoughts of trust - and that his mouth is now on the spot Geralt’s mouth was on, an indirect kiss if ever there was one! - fly from his mind as he sees _it._

 _To The honorable Viscount de Lettenhove, the Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz,_ _  
_ _by order of the Earl and Countess de Lettenhove_

Jaskier shoves the mug back into Geralt’s unassuming hands, spilling it on both of them, getting drops on the fancy, linen paper envelope. Ignoring Geralt’s growl, Jaskier flicks the drink from his fingers and rips the envelope open, unfolding the heavy paper within. It’s an invitation. A _wedding_ invitation. 

_The Lord’s presence is requested for_

_the most honorable marriage of_

_The Viscountess de Lettenhove, the Lady Hedwig Amalia Pankratz_

_Second child and daughter to the Earl and Countess de Lettenhove_

_To_

_The Countess of Azory, the Lady Lorenia Lille de Lucretzia_

_Only daughter and heir to the Marquess de Lucretzia of Azory_

The address is his family’s estate in Lettenhove, the date for next month. And scrawled in his mother’s cramped script written hastily and smudged from her quickness of hand: _We’re expecting your mysterious lover, Julian._

Jaskier’s hands are shaking as he shuffles through the other letters and finds two of the same paper quality. One says, _The Countess of Kolonia, Lady Waleska Adelaide Pankratz Fuhrmann_ , the other _The Viscountess of Lettenhove, the Lady Hedwig Amalia Pankratz._ He rips open Waleska’s letter first. Her handwriting is just as bad as their mother’s.

_Dearest Julek,_

_I take it this finds you_ after _you’ve read Mama and Papa’s invitation to Hedi’s wedding? Finally, she and Lorrie are making it official. Be forewarned, little brother, mother is ready to have you married and settled the moment you step foot on the estate. She’s positively bursting with excitement at the prospect of meeting this mysterious lover you refuse to give any details on except - how did she put it? Tall, lovely, noble, and of few words._

_I hope they’re worth the fuss - and love you very much, or else the hassle of getting marriage shoved down their throat will surely chase them away._

_Dietrich and the children send their love,_

_Waleska_

He tosses that over his shoulder along with the invite, vaguely aware that Geralt has sat beside him and is reading through them all as well. Jaskier rips open Hedwig’s envelope next. 

_Julek!_

_Don’t be too jealous, but your childhood crush has finally decided to make an honest woman out of me. Of course, Mama and Papa were thrilled - they do so love Lorrie. Speaking of love, you best be prepared. Mummy is going berserk because she wants to meet your lover. Oh, you fool, Julian, I’m half convinced you don’t actually_ have _a lover, to be honest. Waleska says I’m being far too cruel, but I’ll believe it when I see you walk in with them._

_Careful, baby brother. Mother is already talking of your impending marriage to whoever it is that accompanies you as though it is set in stone. Good luck!_

_Love you lots, and Lorrie does too,_

_Hedi_

“The gods,” Jaskier moans, shoving his face into the papers, “do detest me.”

He’s only snapped out of it when Geralt snatches Hedwig’s letter from his lax fingers and starts to read it too, murmuring, “Hush, you’ll wake Ciri.”

“What are you - no, Geralt!” Jaskier whisper-screams. But Geralt is already done and has a scowl on his face, like usual. But Jaskier knows the different scowls. This is the contemplative one. He’s working out a problem. Jaskier’s problem. 

“Your sister is getting married and you must attend,” he sums up. “With a nonexistent partner.” Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier can see it now, the minute tick at the corner of Geralt’s mouth, the tiny flare of his nostrils. He’s trying not to laugh. But there’s also a question in there. 

“They wouldn’t leave me be!” Jaskier exclaims, then bites his tongue when Ciri snuffles in her sleep at the sound. “In my land, inheritance goes by birth order, not gender. Lettenhove doesn’t care much for such constructs.”

“You’re last born so you inherit… nothing?” Geralt guesses. 

“Just a small sum and our grandmother’s cottage to retire in. And Granny is still alive and well. But that’s not the point,” he hisses. “The point is that it meant I had _freedom_. Yes, I inherited the viscount title, but only because my father is an earl. It’s only honorary! I could travel, go to Oxenfurt for school. Sing!” He shakes his head. “But mother is insistent that I settle down.”

“So you lied,” the witcher says with a smirk. “Tall, lovely, noble, and of few words?” 

Jaskier hopes Geralt isn’t so cruel as to point out that not only could anyone fit that description, but that Geralt himself could. Because it _is_ based on Geralt. Jaskier knows his own heart, knows that he feels far too strongly for Geralt. He knew it after the dragon, when Geralt sent him away, knew it even more when their paths crossed later, and Geralt spent almost a year sincerely apologizing, eventually admitting that he and Yennefer found it best to be apart and uninvolved. Ciri had been with Geralt by then, and Jaskier far preferred this feminine company to any other Geralt could have. 

And yet, he doesn’t think too badly of Yennefer, not lately, anyway. She’s been doting on Ciri , teaching her to control her power, and has kept her distance, romantically and sexually at least, from Geralt. There is an emotional bond between Yennefer and Geralt, though, that Jaskier respects and would never dare to demand an end to. 

Besides, Geralt isn’t his to make such a demand of, and will never be. 

“Tall, lovely, noble, and of few words, yes. It was enough, at the time. I guess mother had her hands full with grandbabies, so she let it be. But now….” He groans. “I’m in a right mess.” He brightens. “I know, let’s just fake my death!” Geralt snorts. “No, really!” Jaskier turns to him, crossing his legs under him on the bed. “That way, the next time I visit, they’ll be _ecstatic_ to see me. I’ll tell them, ‘Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,’ and then inform them that my lover was tragically lost in the event and I will never be able to love another.” He snaps his fingers, warming up to the idea. “I know just the thing! I’ll compose a ballad for my fallen love - that’ll do the trick.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt drawls, “that is _the_ most idiotic idea you’ve ever had. You’d traumatize your family instead of admitting you lied or simply saying the relationship ended?”

“If I do that, then I’ll spend that whole wedding being paired up with random suitors. I’ll never have peace. I’ll never be able to just celebrate my sister’s wedding!” Jaskier admits, sullen. Geralt had a point. “I just want to go and be there for her without my mother putting any unnecessary attention on me. It’s Hedi’s day, not mine. She’s already been dealt the middle-child spot in life, it shouldn’t have to extend to her wedding.”

It’s true. As first and last born, Waleska and Jaskier drew much of the attention, leaving little for Hedwig. Hedwig constantly got left behind in the middle of things, but she’d always been so good about it, never blaming her siblings and mostly lamenting fate instead. Jaskier doesn’t want his mother trying to pair him up while his sister is getting married. They should _all_ be celebrating _her_. 

“Just take someone then,” Geralt says, standing up. “By the way, you missed something.” He hands the invitation back to Jaskier, the latter trying to wrap his mind around Geralt’s suggestion. On the back, written in his father’s neat, looping script, is a note. 

_We heard you are familiar with a powerful mage, Yennefer of Vengerberg. We would love if she could perform a ritual blessing at your sister’s wedding. Please extend the invitation on our behalf. Looking forward to seeing you son._

_Father_

“Well fuck,” Jaskier says. Now he has to invite Yennefer? “The gods _detest_ me.”

“Just take someone,” Geralt repeats, turning to his swords. He’s probably going to start oiling them. It’s usually so soothing to watch, and Jaskier hopes it can calm him from the frenzy his whole family situation has gotten him into. “Better yet, have them fake being your spouse and dodge the whole marriage talk altogether. You aren’t home enough for them to see through it.” And that throws Jaskier out of his thoughts. He wants to gawk - what crazy ideas has Geralt got in his head? Is he fucking with Jaskier? But there’s no smile on Geralt’s face, just the usual sureness as he takes a seat and starts going through his pack for his oils.

“And who would I be taking?” Jaskier snaps, impatient. First he has to be official and invite Yennefer. Now, Geralt is proposing fake marriage. The mage is going to _laugh_ at him. Good grief. 

“There is no shortage of people who would throw themselves at you to go,” Geralt mutters. He seems a bit uncomfortable at that, refusing to meet Jaskier’s eyes and his voice coming out a bit growly - like he has to _force_ the words out. Jaskier doesn’t care.

“Oh, yes. And I’m sure they would be _so_ good at _faking_ a relationship - a marriage, at your insistence - that I have claimed to be in _for years_ . And no, I’m not asking another troubadour. We’re already a finicky lot. I’d have to ask someone I knew. And the only people I actually know are you and Yennefer. Well,” he concedes at Geralt’s unimpressed look. “Fine. I guess I know Zoltan quite well. But he doesn’t go for blokes, and though I know he’d help, he’d do an awful job of faking it.” The dwarf is a stalwart friend, though, Jaskier knows. “Dudu is off doing gods-know-what as gods-know-who. And I shant ask Priscilla because, though we ended amicably, still, she’s a troubadour.” He pauses. “Also, I think her current partner is one of the new actresses at the Chameleon in Novigrad and I am _not_ about to get an actress after me.” He wonders how his cabaret is doing - he’d left it in Priscilla’s hands when he’d gone back to touring about with Geralt. “Which leaves Yennefer. And the mage of Vengerberg is _not_ going to pretend to be married to me.” He pauses, grimaces. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d be able to pull that off either.”

Softly, from her little bed, Ciri mumbles, “Geralt would be a good husband.” She sits up, rubbing her eyes, not seeing Geralt freeze and Jaskier with his mouth agape. “I can be your adopted daughter. I want to go to a wedding. This sounds more fun than the royal ones and I’ve not been to one in ages.” She yawns and stretches, blowing a pale lock of hair out of her face. 

“Ciri,” Geralt says, sounding pained, “that… is probably not a good idea.”

“Of course it’s not,” Jaskier blurts, trying not to panic. Ciri gives him a pointed look and… does this child _know_ about Jaskier’s very secret and absolutely well hidden yearnings? Oh gods no. “That’s just… ludicrous! Geralt would be terrible at it. What an awful idea. He could never pull it off.”

Silence and then: “Excuse me?” Jaskier turns to Geralt, who’s frowning. Even his forehead is involved, oh no. 

“What? You heard me. You couldn’t pull that off. I, of course, know you the best. It’s been years, and you are my muse, the subject that has gotten us both famous,” Jaskier blabs, bullshitting his way through. He knows very well that _he_ knows Geralt so well because he is stupidly in love with the man. “But you’d never be able to pull off knowing me that way.”

“You think I don’t _know_ you?” Geralt asks, something close to hurt in his voice. “Jaskier, I’ve known you since you were 18.”

“Yes, but this is - this is _marriage_ we’re talking about Geralt. A fake one that you’d have to convince people was real,” Jaskier says. Why are they even having this conversation? _How_ are they even having this conversation? “You can’t even pretend to like the ealdorman of a rude town for long enough to get a good deal on a contract, never mind pretending to - to be _married_ to me for a week.”

“Do you want to bet?” Geralt growls, looking insulted. Jaskier freezes. _What?_

“What?” Jaskier says, lost. Ciri hides her face behind her blanket so no one sees her laughing, but Jaskier can definitely hear it. 

“Fine, it’s settled. We’re going to Lettenhove. I am your spouse, Ciri is our daughter. We’ll get the wedding out of the way and then be back on the road,” Geralt snaps. “Acting as if I don’t know you,” Geralt mutters under his breath. “After years….” He sounds… maybe _hurt_ isn’t the right word, but he’s definitely insulted. 

“Uh, Geralt, let’s think this through…” Jaskier panics. Oh, he’s panicking. So very much. 

“Do you have a better idea? Anyone else to take with you that would be willing _and_ that would know you well enough to not get caught?” Geralt says, fishing in his pack for something. “Like I don’t know you…” he mutters again. 

“Uh.” No. Jaskier doesn’t have anything else in mind, besides the _truth_ and he doesn’t even consider that an option. “Why?” he asks instead. 

“You’re always helping me,” Geralt says, his massive body hunching in on itself and tugging his sword close, suddenly guarded. And Jaskier thinks of all the contract deals he’s helped make, the ruffled feathers he’s helped smooth, the times he’s defended Geralt’s honor because he’s a good man, damn-it. Isn’t that what friends did, though? Or had Jaskier let his love get out of hand and now Geralt thinks he _has_ to pay him back? Is that all this is, Geralt evening the score? “Now you think I can’t help you. Well I can,” Geralt continues. Oh no, this is worse - is this a matter of _pride?_ Geralt feels he has to _prove_ he knows Jaskier as well as Jaskier knows him? “Ha!” Geralt barks, pulling out some loot from the last group of bandits that tried to rob them on the road from Oxenfurt. He picks through the jewels, pulling out two silver bands. Jaskier’s stomach clenches, but Ciri slips out of bed to go admire what Geralt’s brought out. 

Uh oh. 

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, voice sounding strangled with words scraped up from his throat. Ciri sits at the table with Geralt and goes through the little treasures he isn’t using, leaving them to it. She seems quite content to test the edge of a silver dagger against her thumb or spin a few rings like tops on the table.

“What?” Geralt murmurs, picking through the loot for some gems. He looks briefly at Jaskier then back to the small gems he has decided on. “Shouldn’t you be sending word to your family? I’m already mentally composing my letter to Yennefer. She’s in Vizima for the next month. I’ll send it off today. She'll come around in a few days, to be sure.”

“I… yes.” And that’s that. 

Ciri soon grows bored of her dagger and rings, tugging Geralt away from his ring work and downstairs to rustle up some breakfast. Jasker will join them later. For now, he sits on the bed and pens a note to his father that he’ll be attending the wedding with two guests, and that he’ll have the mage of Vengerberg in tow. He’s still reeling, even after leaving the message with the barkeep with Geralt’s letter to Yennefer to go out with the rest of the mail. By next week, a courier will have delivered it to his father’s estate. They’ll probably get there in a fortnight at the lastest, leaving a whole week leading up to the wedding in which Jaskier’s family will undoubtedly realize that he and Geralt are _not_ married, Ciri does _not_ see them as her parents, and Yennefer is just there to stir up some trouble. 

And how, exactly, is he supposed to be married to Geralt and do all the things married couples do, like sleep in the same bed and sweet talk one another and _touch?_

 _Oh my,_ Jaskier thought. _I am thoroughly fucked._


	2. The Song You Know's Begun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer arrives, Jaskier asks his questions, and Geralt makes them 'official'. Or, Jaskier watches his sane world crumble around him and wonders, is this real life or is this fantasy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song referenced is _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ from Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire. Song sung in this one is Lord Huron's _The Night We Met_. Chapter title from Amazing Devil's _Love Run_.

Yennefer finds them a week later in the same tavern inn. They’d stayed put, waiting for her arrival. Geralt has gone on two hunting trips into the countryside - one after a fiend and another for a foglet - and made himself a healthy sum for future expenses, which is a rare thing in itself. 

Through it all, Geralt’s still been working on those rings. 

Jaskier has been performing at the tavern below to pay for their rooms, trying not to think about the impending familial doom and horror or even, what those rings are supposed to mean. Ciri is bored, but in the mornings, she reads the books Yennefer has said she must read to get a better understanding of her gifts. She practices with her little sword by the stables in the afternoons. At night, she sings with Jaskier, and when he is gone, she misses Geralt sorely. 

Jaskier does as well. 

“What is the urgency?” Yennefer snaps the morning she finds them. Jaskier had heard the clack of her heels as she barged her way up into the sleeping quarters of the place, bypassing the barkeep and owner who called after her in distress. Jaskier still yelps in surprise when the door flies open. Ignoring him just as Geralt does, Yennefer glares at Geralt where he sits at the back table of their room, whispering and etching something or other into first one, then the other ring. He looks up slowly. 

“Good morning. Keep your voice down, Ciri is still asleep,” he says. It has the desired effect. Yennefer’s eyes flick over to Ciri, bundled up in her bed, breathing softly. The lines of Yennefer’s face ease, and she takes a seat at the foot of the girl’s bed, brushes a long curl of hair from her face. 

“Fine, what do you lot want?” Yennefer murmurs. 

“You are cordially invited to the Viscountess of Lettenhove’s wedding ceremony and have been commissioned by this bride’s family to perform a ritual blessing over the married couple,” Jaskier drawls, on his back on the bed. Since he’d gotten the bed last night, he’s soaking up the comfort while he can. Tonight, the unforgiving floor and musty pallet are going to be his only comfort before a week of riding and sleeping on the forest floor. He looks over to Yennefer, her eyebrows high in surprise. “One of my big sisters is getting married,” he summarizes. 

“You're the Earl of Lettenhove’s son?” Yennefer snorts, then smothers the rest of the laugh. “Amazing.”

“You’ll get paid,” Jaskier sulks, pulling a pillow over his face.

“As expected,” Yennefer says. Jaskier peeks out from under the pillow and catches her looking at both of them, those violet eyes flicking between the two men. Geralt doesn’t making eye contact back to her, and in response, Jaskier dives back under the pillow and tries to smother himself with it. “And what else is going on, then?”

“We’re going to pretend to be married because I lied to my family and don’t want to be bothered with suitors?” Jaskier tries, glad of the pillow he can hide behind.

_ “We?”  _ Yennefer starts. He can’t see her, but Jaskier  _ knows _ she’s glancing at Geralt who is undoubtedly refusing to make eye contact still. “As in you and  _ Geralt?”  _ Jaskier groans in response. 

Yennefer laughs. And she laughs. She doesn’t stop laughing until Jaskier sits up and throws his pillow in her face. Then her eyes flash with spite and she makes the pillow burst into flames, though she’s careful not to disturb Ciri. 

“Watch yourself, bard,” she snarls.

_ “You _ watch yourself, mage,” Jaskier hisses back. 

“Both of you, stop,” Geralt says, not bothering to say anything about Yennefer’s reaction to their plan. “Jaskier, come here.” Jaskier sticks his tongue out at Yennefer because he is a child, and because she is as well, she sticks hers out right back. It has the two of them smirking against their will as Jaskier crosses the room to Geralt’s side. 

“See if this fits,” Geralt says, handing Jaskier one of the bands he has been fiddling with all week. The ring is shining silver and has three blue gems, close to the color of Jaskier’s eyes, set into the top. There are etchings down the sides, and something he can’t quite read in the low light of the room engraved on the inner band. He slides it onto the traditional wedding finger and it fits. 

“Good,” Geralt murmurs, eyes trained firmly on Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier wants to scream. But he’s an adult. So he does so internally instead. 

“That’s enchanted,” Yennefer calls softly. She gets up and stalks over. Her black and white dress swishes as she comes.

“A little protection never hurt anyone,” Geralt replies. He looks up at her. They stare each other down and Jaskier feels, as he always does, like he’s intruding. 

“Whose silly idea was this?” she asks. 

“Mine,” Geralt admits, before Jaskier can say anything else. “Gets him out of a spot of trouble.”

“And there are no other options?” Yennefer asks, eyes flicking to Jaskier. 

“None that he wants to take.”

“So you’ve stepped in. What a good  _ friend,” _ she states, voice dull and an eyebrow raised. Jaskier has the feeling they’re having a completely different conversation than the one he’s hearing. Probably telepathically. The comment, or maybe something silently said, seems to strike a nerve in Geralt. 

“Yes,” Geralt grates out. “Will you come with us? Ciri could use a companion.”

It’s the right thing to say. Yennefer’s face gets soft again and she nods. 

“On one condition,” she says, lifting her head. Jaskier moans. 

“Oh gods, what?” he asks. 

“I get to choose - and buy - everyone’s wedding feast outfits,” she declares. “Small price to pay.”

“Indeed,” Geralt answers. He relaxes a fraction and Yennefer grins. 

“What’s it to be bard? It seems you’re running this operation.”

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier agrees. “You’d best do that now, then. We need to be off by tomorrow morning if we’re to make it to the estate in time to help with the preparations.” Not that Jaskier  _ wants _ to help. He has a feeling this is going to blow up in his face. 

“Of course. I’ll wake Ciri. I’m sure she’d love a day out,” Yennefer says. Before either Jaskier or Geralt can warn her against waking Ciri preemptively - which once got Jaskier a black eye and Geralt a vase to the head - she gently shakes Ciri’s shoulder and whispers in her ear. Ciri comes to with fluttering golden lashes and a wide smile on her face, absolutely thrilled at Yennefer’s presence. It’s a miracle. They soon set out for the day, after Ciri changes into appropriate clothes with Yennefer’s well-meaning haranguing. They leave, Ciri hanging off of Yennefer as they make their way out, such an out of place, peaceful look on Yennefer’s face. 

“I resent that, a bit,” Jaskier admits after they’ve gone. Geralt grunts in agreement. 

“We need to discuss our plan,” Geralt says. “Strategize.” Jaskier winces, because he has been avoiding that this past week, and then he turns. He’s still wearing the ring, and Geralt slips the other on so they match. It’s the same silver as Jaskier’s, though plain with no gems. At this distance, it glimmers just a bit, and Jaskier assumes there are matching runes on Geralt’s as well. The sight makes Jaskier’s heart hurt. He wishes this were real, makes a promise to himself in that moment that while they’re at his family home, he  _ will _ pretend it’s real. He’ll never get another chance to be intimate with Geralt in  _ that _ way, he knows. 

“Alright, what?” he asks. 

“Is there any particular profession I need to have?” Geralt starts. Jaskier shakes his head. 

“No, go on and be your witchery witcher self. You don’t have to change anything. I don’t think you could get away with it, really, what with the eyes. Besides - I know you best as you are. So as you are you will stay.” Geralt gets a strange look on his face. “What? I would  _ so _ marry a witcher, come off it.”

“It’s not that,” Geralt murmurs, shakes his head, and goes quiet for a moment, eyes squinting at Jaskier. Then: “Fine. Any specific thing you’d like me to  _ not _ do?”

“Uh… not really? Just. Act as you would. As though it were real.” And that makes Jaskier’s voice catch in his throat. He clears it. “And if you’ve never had the occasion-” Jaskier ignores Geralt’s ugly look at the quip, “- then do as you’ve seen others do.”

“Wonderful,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes. “So if your songs have gotten that far, your family is going to think you married the witcher Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the-” Geralt falters. “The Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Stop that,” Jaskier snaps. He makes his way to the table and drops down to one knee, on the same level with Geralt’s face. With Geralt seated, it’s easy to peer into those golden, cat-like eyes. “I swear, if anyone mentions that Blaviken nonsense, I’ll stamp it right out, for all to see. Not only would I never let anyone bad-mouth my spouse, but I’d never let anyone do it to a friend, either.”  _ I’d certainly never let anyone do it to  _ _ you _ , Jaskier doesn’t say, but it’s a close one. 

Geralt searches his face for  _ something _ and Jaskier wishes he knew what it was so he could show Geralt that he has it, he’s worth it. But then Geralt nods, slowly. 

“Alright.”

“Alright.” Jaskier goes to sit again, toying with the ring. He turns it, back and forth, back and forth on his finger. It’s gorgeous. He wonders if he can keep it after all of this is said and done. It will provide a great excuse if there’s ever someone he just  _ doesn’t _ want running after him. He wonders how sad he’ll get whenever he looks at it. 

“We say we adopted Ciri after Nilfgaard destroyed her town and killed her family,” Geralt says after a while of awkward silence where Jaskier sits very still and Geralt gets statuesque himself.

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees. “That much isn’t really a lie.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Geralt doesn’t add anything else, just sits there and looks at Jaskier with those eyes, until Jaskier clears his throat and says, “Uh, so is there, oh you know, anything  _ you  _ don’t want me to do? We  _ are  _ feigning marriage, after all. We have backstories. But what about - you know?”

That forehead scrunch, it’s going to haunt Jaskier’s dreams. 

“What? What about what?” Geralt asks. “Go on.”

“Ah - I mean.” Jaskier stops. How is it that he can be so suave and smooth when it comes to matters of love and lust with just about  _ anyone else _ \- until he gets to one Geralt of Rivia? “I said to act as though we were actually together. But if there is something you’d rather have me avoid - touching you in certain ways, or - or even  _ kissing  _ if it ever comes to that, I’ll respect your wishes. Obviously.”

The stare Geralt pegs Jaskier with goes right through Jaskier’s heart - and loins, if he’s being honest. Geralt’s eyes are piercing, always, but his gaze is steady and his face is blank save for a glimmer in his eyes. 

He says, words deliberate and steady, “There’s nothing I would bar you from. The goal is to convince them we’re a couple, is it not? So we will do as couples do as the opportunities present themselves.” A flicker in the gold of his eyes. “I trust you.”

Jaskier wants to fall to the floor - and as he’s already kneeling, it wouldn’t be too far a fall - but even he thinks that would be too dramatic. As it is, he loses the ability to form words for a moment, but keeps the revelation silent. He  _ knows, _ on some level, that Geralt trusts him. Hearing Geralt say it is something else.

“Well!” Jaskier exclaims, finally breaking eye contact. That… that’s free-reign, isn’t it? Geralt has given him free reign. Oh no. “Do tell me if anything changes. With… with that.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt hums. When Jaskier looks back up, Geralt is still looking at him. “I extend to you the same courtesy.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you. I’ll let you know.” Jaskier stands, goes back to the bed to get some extra time in before the dreaded floor tonight. Then he  _ realizes _ , and turns back to Geralt. The witcher is  _ still _ watching him. “I trust you, too, you know.”

“I know.” Only now, the ghost a smile flickers across Geralt’s lips. The sight warms Jaskier to his toes.

And that’s that. 

They stay in silence for the rest of the afternoon, Jaskier working on some songs he wants to sing at his sister’s wedding, Geralt readying their things for travel the next morning. When evening comes, it brings Yennefer and Ciri with it, clutching packages wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Ciri is skipping around in excitement. Yennefer often brings her baubles, treats, and outfits when she visits, or shops with her so she has decent things to wear that won’t be eaten up by the road. A magic pouch that carries far more than it should stores her things and is small enough that Ciri can strap it around her waist and carry it herself. 

“We’re back!” Ciri calls, something sugary smeared across her mouth. She wipes it with the back of her hand. “And just in time for dinner. Are we singing tonight, Jaskier?” she asks. 

“It’s our last night. It’d be a shame if we didn’t,” he responds with a smile. She’s so sweet, so eager to see the world. She’s smart too, and so very sad. He hears her cry some nights, has sat with her while Geralt lets her cry into his shoulder, or listened as Geralt comforted her with his reassuring silence. 

“The color we went with was blue!” Ciri announces. She pulls a package from Yennefer and sets it in Jaskier’s lap. She does the same with another, depositing it on Geralt’s knees and planting a sweet kiss on his cheek in greeting. Geralt’s smiles dredged up by Ciri’s innocent affections are one of Jaskier’s favorite things to witness. 

Ciri has her own package, as does Yennefer. The mage nods to Jaskier’s package and he opens it. The doublet is made of crushed velvet and is dyed the cerulean of his eyes. Ciri pulls out her dress to show them, a linen number in aquamarine that makes her own eyes shine and her hair look positively radiant. Yennefer allows them a peek at the silk, indigo dress she has wrapped up. 

Geralt is last. He sighs and opens the package, albeit reluctantly. The doublet he pulls out will definitely hug every inch of him in a dark navy, almost black. Jaskier can feel his face heat as he imagines Geralt in it. 

“Wonderful,” Geralt huffs, wrapping it again. 

“I picked the color!” Ciri says. “You’ll match me. If I must wear a dress and you must wear a doublet, then I will wear something that compliments you.” She grins, pleased. Geralt’s grin is small but pleased by her pleasure. 

“Perfect,” he says softly, genuine this time. 

“Well, I say we head down, get some food, entertain a bit, then head to bed,” Yennefer suggests. Jaskier actually agrees. “We’ll be up early.”

“We will, so bed early,” Jaskier says to Ciri who frowns. “Uh-uh, no. None of that. We have a long week of travel ahead of us.”

“Will you be staying with us Yen?” Ciri asks instead. She turns to the mage. “There’s room enough on my bed!”

“I’m sure Yennefer can afford her own room,” Geralt says. Jaskier is a bit surprised. He would have thought Geralt would be up for the idea. 

“Please?” Ciri insists. 

“I would be honored,” Yennefer says. She flicks her eyes to Geralt and Jaskier. “If your  _ fathers _ don’t mind.” She grins, already playing the role. Ciri giggles too. Geralt has rolled his eyes skyward.

Jaskier is so red in the face that he just blurts, “I don’t care, Yennefer can stay where she pleases.” He gets the floor tonight, so who cares? 

“It’s decided then,” Yennefer says, still grinning. 

They all eat in the tavern below, and when it’s time for some music, Ciri gets up with him and sings _ The Bear and the Maiden Fair _ , singing the maiden’s part. It’s equal parts adorable and entertaining, and after her second round of applause, she yawns and rubs an eye. In the meantime, Yennefer had been speaking in hushed tones with Geralt in the back, but now she gives him a meaningful look, nodding to Jaskier, and leaves. She collects Ciri and volunteers to ready her for bed, the ladies disappearing up the stairs. 

Jaskier gives Geralt a questioning look, nodding after them, but Geralt shakes his head and raises his tankard to him in acknowledgement. Whatever he had been discussing with Yennefer seems to be none of Jaskier’s business. It hurts, but Jaskier also knows that he has no right to feel as hurt as he does. He clears his throat.

“Ah yes, listen, listen, time for a song of longing, yes? I think this will do just fine for the end of the night. Hold your lovers close, no - no, closer, my friends,  _ closer _ .” He pretends to have spotted some nasty behavior. “Dear sirs, not  _ that _ close. Take it upstairs!” Laughter, even Geralt has managed a toothy smile. Jaskier starts, finger-picking his way up and down, and up and down. He croons for a moment, the tavern falling into a hush. And then:

“I am not the only traveler   
Who has not repaid his debt -   
I've been searching for a trail to follow again.   
Take me back to the night we met.”

He switches to solely playing in the middle of the song, unsure why he’s seeking out Geralt’s visage in the sea of faces staring back at him, enraptured. Geralt’s face is smooth, eyes closed as he simply listens to Jaskier sing and play. He looks so vulnerable, all the way in a corner in the back, in the dark, where no one but Jaskier has a good vantage to see him.

“And then I can tell myself   
What the hell I'm supposed to do.   
And then I can tell myself   
Not to ride along with you.”

Jaskier can admit, now, as Geralt’s eyes slowly open at the words, that he wrote this during the time they were separated, when Yennefer severed her connections to Geralt and, in turn, Geralt sent him away. Jaskier still isn’t sure if he’s talking about Geralt and Yennefer in the song, or Geralt and himself. Maybe both. 

“I had all and then most of you   
Some and now none of you.   
Take me back to the night we met.   
I don't know what I'm supposed to do   
Haunted by the ghost of you.   
Oh, take me back to the night we met.”

There’s more to the song, but he can’t even get the words out anymore as Geralt’s eyes lock on his. He continues to play, the mood subdued, a few people humming along, but generally enjoying the ambiance of the moment. When the song comes to an end, people sit in the deafening silence of the tavern. The applause, when it comes, is roaring. 

“Thank you all, you’ve been lovely! But I’ve a little one to return to and must bid you all goodnight!” Just as swift as his goodbye, Jaskier collects his coin and goes. On his way up the stairs, as some other entertainer takes his place on the small stage, he feels a large, strong hand grasp his elbow. He turns. 

Geralt. 

“Yes?” Jaskier asks, not sure why they’re standing in the dark on the stair, with the reverberations and muffled playings going on below. Geralt is close, so close Jaskier can smell the ale on his breath, feel the droplets of each exhale against his skin, the air pulling at his cheeks with every inhale of the other man’s breath. 

“...nothing,” Geralt says, finally. He lets go and Jaskier breathes out a sigh of relief. They creep back into their room where Geralt has them all packed for the morning. Ciri is asleep against Yennefer, who lounges in her bed with her, drifting in and out of consciousness. She waves halfheartedly, languid in her own exhaustion. In silence, the two men prepare for bed. Jaskier puts his lute in his case, then goes to his pallet. He kicks the sorry excuse for a sleeping place, and then throws himself down, because there’s no way it’s going to feel better than a bed. He hears the bed in question creak above him, and then Geralt is quiet. 

A few moments later, after Jaskier has flipped himself in so many circles he’s gone dizzy with it, the bed creaks again. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt whispers. 

“Yes?”

“Get up here.”

“Pardon?” Jaskier’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. 

“It’s just for the night. The bed is large enough and we've shared before. If I hear you skittering around down there one more time, I’ll go mad.”

He shouldn’t. Jaskier really shouldn’t. But a bed. And  _ Geralt _ . It’s not the fantasy he’d dreamt of, but it’s something. And it’s a better option than this shit pallet on the floor. So he grunts and scrabbles up, goes toward one side of the bed only to feel that strong hand grip his elbow again and direct him, slowly, gently, into the bed beside him. It’s warm, so Geralt must have rolled over so as not to inconvenience Jaskier, thus inconveniencing himself. The bed isn’t so big as to not know where Geralt is; Jaskier can feel the sheets move with his every breath, shallower and farther between than Jaskier’s as they may be. 

But their rhythm is enough to make him drop off into sleep, heart thundering in his ears. In the end, Jaskier will only ever feel safe and comfortable around Geralt. Jaskier is, after all, one of the few people that runs  _ to _ Geralt for protection rather than  _ away _ for protection  _ from _ him. 


	3. It's Up To You Now, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Jaskier and his company make it to Lettenhove and his family's estate. It's time to see if he and Geralt can really pull this all off. He hopes his family is prepared for Geralt. Oh gods - he hopes Geralt is prepared for his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the family~ This ought to be fun. Thanks y'all!
> 
> [Here is art](https://zooks-trash.tumblr.com/post/638221924008361984/hello-i-participated-in-the-geralt-jaskier-big) by the amazing zooks-trash!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jaskier’s calculations are correct - they arrive at the Pankratz estate in Lettenhove a week before the ceremony is set to take place. The whole estate is bustling with preparations, people running in and out through the large wooden gates that attach to the stone walls surrounding the estate. Frilly decorations of lace and flowers are going up everywhere on the stone walls and doors that separate the grounds and manor from the road leading into the town proper. At the entrance to the grounds, a long line extends out, which Jaskier and his little group have since joined. In front of them, the food is going in past the gates, headed to the kitchens no doubt, in big wooden crates on wagons with cooks at the head of their own entourage. Gaining entrance to the estate at the front gates leading onto the property is no small feat until Jaskier flashes his invitation and smiles, the head guard finally recognizing him amid all others trying to gain entrance at once. How long has it been? At least five years, maybe more. Jaskier tries not to let it bother him that he can’t quite remember.

“Lord Julian!” the guard yelps. He’s dressed in the family colors - all deep blues and fuschia pinks between his heavy leather armor. The guard bows far too low so that his sword almost slides out its scabbard on his back, embarrassing Jaskier at his family guards’ incompetence. Yennefer is perfect poise in the face of it all, ignoring the guard. Ciri falls back on her training growing up and tries to maintain a neutral expression, though her mouth twitches just like Geralt’s when he’s holding back a laugh. Geralt himself doesn’t much care, just grunts and rolls his eyes at the antics. As a witcher, with his bulk and weapons and sharp eyes, he is far more intimidating than the guard, who mutters something rude under his breath and spits off to the side at the sight of Geralt. “And guests,” the guard amends, though it’s an afterthought at best. “Come in, come in.” They make it through the gates and Ciri gasps at the place laid out before her. 

There are gardens everywhere, filled with flowers of all kinds in a rainbow smear amongst green meadow grass. A large water fountain is directly before them in the center of the cobblestoned courtyard, hedges on either side leading up to the main estate - a large manor in old wood and brown brick, large bay windows letting in all the sunlight. Balconies adorn the upper floors, while a large, marble set of stairs on the bottom leads up to the main doors made of shining cherry wood. Beside the estate, more gardens are in bloom, and behind, Jaskier knows the area his sister will get married in is being set up, more flowers everywhere. He feels a sneeze coming on. 

“I’ve never seen so many flowers,” Ciri murmurs. She turns around on the cart they commissioned a few days back for her and Yennefer to sit in. Roach and Jaskier’s chestnut, Thistle, had gladly pulled it, happy for the slower pace. “Can we go look at the flowers? Please?” she asks Jaskier. He doesn’t see why not. 

“Of course,” he replies, feeling nervous as they make their way up the walkway. His _family_ is in there. It feels like he’s swallowed a batch of butterflies now, with all the fluttering in his gut. They stop the cart for Ciri and Yennefer to hop out and head toward the gardens in the not-too-distant distance. Yennefer shares a look with Geralt, revealing nothing in their stoic expressions, and then takes Ciri’s hand, allowing the girl to drag her off. “They’ll be fine,” Jaskier says, in case Geralt thought otherwise. 

“I know,” Geralt replies. He clicks his tongue at Roach and the mare leads Jaskier’s gelding off the rest of the way to the staircase. There are footmen that take the reins, nod to Jaskier respectfully and give Geralt a wide berth before leading the animals and cart to the stables on the other side of the estate, opposite the gardens. Someone else grabs all their bags and carries them in, taking note that it's the honorable Viscount de Lettenhove back home. “Will you be alright?” Geralt asks, voice low as they wait for a manservant to open the door and announce at least Jaskier. 

“Probably not,” Jaskier admits, grimacing and trying to mentally prepare himself. “But I’m hoping.” They get waved in. 

The foyer is brightly lit, all the windows open with the sun shining through them and the heavy, blue velvet curtains pulled back by thick, golden rope. A large, wooden staircase in front of them branches off left and right to the rest of the house, decked out in the same lace and flower decorations as the front gates. Jaskier’s mother is in the middle of it all on the marble floor, directing a maid with several vases of pink flowers. His father is speaking in one of the room’s corners, likely discussing with a few hunters on what other game they’ll need for the festivities. The man is tall and lithe from all his years hunting with his men. It takes a moment to get their attention as the servant announces them, but at the young woman’s words, his mother’s eyes fall on the hulking man with the scarred face dwarfing her waving son in the middle of the entrance hall. Both men are dusty from the road and a bit weary, but Jaskier finds it in himself to smile when his mother rushes over, eyes wide. 

“Oh, Julian!” she exclaims, her voice echoing off the mirrors, high ceilings, old paintings of long-dead family members, and stone floor. She is a squat woman with a round face and greying brown hair, but her dress befits her countess title, all linen and richly dyed cotton. They embrace, his mother squeezing him tight. His father forgets the hunters, makes his way over, and pulls his wife and son close. His hair is red, though fading into a grey that matches his eyes, and falls into a long face with a square jaw. 

To the side, Geralt’s face softens a fraction, only noticeable by those who truly knew him. But Jaskier is not paying that much attention. 

“It has been far too long!” his father says, voice deep but hitting a higher octave in happiness. “We were so happy to have gotten your letter last week. We’ve been expecting you!”

“Oh, my little Julek, yes, yes, my little love,” his mother says, Jaskier’s face in her hands. She has to reach up quite a bit to do so. “Oh, you look so well, my son. So well!” She drops her hands. “Now, where are your guests?”

“The mage came in with us and is exploring the gardens,” Jaskier says. He half turns to where Geralt is standing off to the side of Jaskier almost in a corner of the room with a perfect view for eyeing everyone around him with those sharp eyes and furrowed brows. The manor staff have all taken a collective step back and away from him. Geralt is aware of their stares, staring back at them all with a tight jaw, and Jaskier wants to bash everyone over the head, as usual. But it’s time to see what they can pull off. “And this… oh, come closer, love. That won’t do.” Jaskier extends his hand and absolutely beams when Geralt takes it without hesitation, allows Jaskier to draw him in with complete trust. Geralt is eyeing the family, eyes flicking over their features, calculating. But both Jaskier’s parents are watching aptly with wide, curious eyes, withholding judgement - for now. “This is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” his father says, testing out the name. His eyes take in all of Geralt as the witcher comes to stand right by Jaskier’s side - the scars, the hair, the _cat_ _eyes._ They’re about the same height, so Jaskier’s father is able to look Geralt right into those yellow eyes if he wants to. 

“And you are who Jaskier has been hiding from us?” his mother questions Geralt directly. Jaskier can see the cogs turning in her head as she cranes her neck to look all the way up at Geralt’s face. She slits her eyes, searching Geralt’s face for… something.

“It seems so. But he has also been hiding you from me,” Geralt responds, ever witty and quick with his tongue. Jaskier grins. Geralt, to be honest, is perfect. At least, he is to Jaskier. He wonders if his parents will agree, but for now, this is a good start. Both his parents seem pleased that Geralt had not growled or said something rude, sharing a quick nod with each other at his answer. 

“Yes, yes, enough of that, the lot of you,” Jaskier intervenes, just in case. “Yes. This is who I spend my days and nights with.”

“His name is familiar to me,” Jaskier’s father says, frowning. He purses his lips, like he’s mulling it over.

“It may be because you have heard of him. Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. A witcher,” Jaskier says proudly while beside him, he hears Geralt choke on his next words. 

“Ah yes, a _witcher_ \- the eyes,” his father confirms, his words coming out slow as though he’s choosing which ones to let free and which ones to hold back.

“Jaskier,” Geralt admonishes but suddenly Jaskier can’t respond. Did Geralt just call him _that_ , affectionately, _in front of his family_? Jaskier feels lightheaded. Geralt hasn’t let go of his hand, has held it a bit tighter if anything. Because Geralt doesn’t know the moniker ‘Jaskier’ actually _translates into_ _something_ around here.

“Julian,” his mother calls, sounding a tad frail herself all of a sudden. Her words are faint, almost a whisper. “What is that?” She’s pointing at their clasped hands, wide-eyed and for a moment Jaskier has no idea what she’s referring to. But then he remembers. 

His faux wedding band is visible. 

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Jaskier clears his throat. “Mother, Father. Geralt is not simply my lover. We…” He can’t even get it out. He can’t stop smiling, even though his family looks a bit uncomfortable as they shift about and frown at Jaskier’s manic grin. It’s not real, he tries to remind himself, but when he says, “Geralt of Rivia is my husband,” his voice is brimming with pride and Geralt’s got this strange, scrunched up expression on his face. Still, Geralt leans down and brushes the tip of his nose against Jaskier’s temple, huffs what could be interpreted as a pleased grunt. Jaskier’s brain stops working for a moment.

“Married a witcher!” his father says weakly, voice going up a bit in surprise and even humor if the small smile on his face is anything to go by, just as his mother shrieks, “Julian Alfred Pankratz!” in shock. 

“Julek!” Jaskier hears from the stairs. He looks up. Sitting in the seat of the contraption that lowers her down the balustrade - as she cannot walk down the stairs herself - Hedwig is grinning at him, large eyes on Geralt. Beside her, hands covering her mouth and most definitely having heard his last sentence, stands Waleska, covering her laugh. 

“Hello girls,” he calls, trying to push through like this is not out of the ordinary. “This is Geralt.”

“You got married without telling anyone!?” Waleska yelps. At least they aren’t harping on the _witcher husband_ thing. “Rude boy!”

“Oh Julian,” his mother continues in a lament. “Why would you deprive us of that celebration? Oh, how cruel! My only son, married, with not a word to his family.” She doesn’t mention Geralt’s witcher status either, but her eyes are sharp behind her warbling words, and Jaskier is not fooled. He knows his mother. He’ll be hearing more about this when they are _not_ in front of the manor staff.

Geralt moves to stand behind Jaskier, as though hiding, when he says, “I do hope that you do not look down on our union too much.” Geralt bows his head in a bid at submission to the ruling family, and continues. “I was the one who suggested marriage last year.” Nice ad-lib, Jaskier wants to say, but he’s a bit caught by his parents processing the information. _Aloud._ In front of the manor staff. Oh gods. 

“After being with him for so long, I cannot blame you,” Jaskier’s father admits with a sigh. Like he had expected something like this from Jaskier. _Rude._ “It would have been nice to at least been informed, if not invited,” he tells Jaskier, voice a bit sharp. But then he grins. Jaskier’s father has always been the softer of his parents. “What’s done is done. We congratulate you, my son.” He looks at Geralt. “A witcher. I did not think your kind existed anymore. Or at least, that you did not roam so… publicly.” At least, Jaskier figures, his father is trying to be nice about his surprise. His mother, however, has been eerily silent, which worries Jaskier. Her eyes are slit again, intent on Geralt, listening to the men, and processing, 

“I am one of the last witchers,” Geralt admits, though he doesn’t share much more. Jaskier winces. His father could have been a bit more tactful about that, but alas. It’s true - Lettenhove didn’t see many witchers.

And then, of course, someone - a chimney sweep coming in from his duties - says, “The Butcher of Blaviken, no less! I’m sure there’s plenty others it could’ve been, but we’ve got the worst!” Everyone stops. Jaskier’s father frowns, his mother squints even harder at Geralt, his sisters share looks of concern with one another. Behind him, Geralt tenses.

Jaskier snaps. 

“Come forward!” he snarls. In response, Geralt tugs on Jaskier’s hand, tries to catch his attention again, but Jaskier won’t have it. “I said come forward!”

A scullery maid pushes the chimney sweep forward, a boy barely old enough to leave his mother’s skirts. His face is smudged with black, but there’s a cruel little sneer on it when his eyes fall on Geralt. 

“Say that again,” Jaskier intones, letting go of Geralt and stalking toward him. 

“It’s true, the freak! He’s the Butcher of Blaviken. Killed ten men and then some in a market square, then a woman - for no reason! Just to slaughter them in the-” He stops talking when Jaskier gets close enough to count the smudges on his face. 

“Say it. Again.” 

The boy is silent. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice soft and deep and Jaskier can hear the exhaustion, the tightness of tone that translates into _hurt._ No. _No._

“Is that true?” Jaskier’s father hazards. He looks a bit conflicted, like he wants to support Jaskier in his decisions but doesn’t want to be seen supporting a cold-blooded killer. 

“No!” Jaskier yells over the boy. “No, it is _not_. Some twisted sorcerer used those people as his pawns. And when they threatened to annihilate the town, he stayed in his tower. Only my Geralt went in to see what the ruckus was about.” Everyone stares as he speaks, and he addresses each one in turn. “And then they attacked him. What would you have my husband do? Die? No. He defended himself, asked them to stop and they refused. So they died, yes. And the woman?” He laughs but it is bitter. He feels Geralt’s hand burning on his back. “She had a knife to a little girl’s throat. Was he to let her die as well?” He thinks of Ciri in Marilka’s place and feels sick to his stomach. He wonders if Geralt is, on occasion, assaulted by these images. His heart hurts. “He begged her to stop the nonsense. She wouldn’t. They gave him little choice and he did the best he could with what he had. And those people he saved turned on him, in the end, because he made a choice when they refused.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. Jaskier turns to him. Sees gratitude in his eyes. Everything is worth it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. That Geralt had to hear that, to see that, in front of all these strangers. Sorry that he agreed to this hairbrained scheme. But Geralt shakes his head, takes Jaskier’s hand in his to pull him back by his side. Jaskier turns back on the chimney sweep who is looking anywhere but at him. “Any insult against my husband is an insult against me, which is an insult against this family. Tell me boy, do you insult this family?” The boy shakes his head furiously in denial. “Then be gone from my sight for the duration of my stay and do not utter such nonsense again.” The chimney sweep scurries off, thoroughly dismissed. 

“Julian!” his mother says, hands braced on her hips, mouth pressed into a thin line. But. In her eyes, Jaskier is positive he sees a spark, maybe _pride_? That’s interesting.

“I apologize, mother. Father. But I’m not letting any insult against him stand. If you’d rather we left, I understand.”

“Nonsense,” his father says. If anything, he looks quite proud of both Jaskier and Geralt. Happy that Jaskier has grown a backbone for someone, even if not himself. “Nonsense. That’s been dealt with. Let us not speak of it any longer. Your husband seems the honorable sort, though… unconventional.” Leave it to Jaskier’s father to spin _witcher_ in a positive way. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Geralt says, bowing his head, unable to look them all in the eye.

“Enough, oh enough of that,” Jaskier’s mother says. “Come, let’s get a look at you.” She gets closer to appraise Geralt, who is double her height. She takes in his white hair, his cat eyes with the pupils slit in the sunniness of the foyer, his scar. She looks down to his dusty boots all the way up to his double swords poking from over his shoulder. Jaskier can _feel_ her weighing Geralt against who she had thought Jaskier would be bringing home. And then, she nods, seemingly satisfied. “Wonderful. Though you both could do with a bath-”

“I have flowers!” Ciri calls as she bursts into the hall with Yennefer following gracefully with a knowing grin. Jaskier cringes to think of what she heard from all their minds moments ago. Their presence seems to change the mood from tense to curious. Ciri is a gorgeous child, Jaskier knows this. Her long golden hair, almost as pale as Geralt’s, shimmers in the sun coming through the windows. Her eyes sparkle with glee. She’s in a jumpsuit she can run around and train in, her hands dirty from the garden. She has a single rose and a handful of buttercups in hand. 

Ciri runs up to them, barreling into Geralt and wrapping her arms around him. He lets go of Jaskier’s hand to do the same, relaxing in her presence. The tension seems to just bleed from his muscles. Jaskier had just about died on the inside the first time he saw Geralt get affectionate with the child. His mother, Jaskier notes, is immediately enamored, trying not to coo at them. Ciri pulls back from Geralt as Yennefer draws near. She smiles at Yennefer, sharp and sly for one so young, and shoves the buttercups in Geralt’s face. 

“Lady Yennefer said you would appreciate the buttercups more than the lilac,” she says, and Geralt raises a brow skeptically as he takes the blooms from Ciri’s little hand. Jaskier feels his face burn and wonders if Yennefer knows what the word _jaskier_ means. Ciri then turns to Jaskier. “And she dethorned this so you wouldn’t hurt your hand, Papa.” Jaskier hears both his sisters gasp and his father choke on his next breath. Ciri turns to Geralt. “Father, is everything alright?” she asks Geralt. There’s a twitch by her lips - she must be trying _so_ hard not to smile right now. Yennefer had definitely coached her on what to say. 

“Everything is fine,” Geralt answers, smoothing her hair. He acts as he always does with her, and Ciri does the same. It is, Jaskier admits, exactly as it looks: a father and daughter who love each other more than the world itself. He smells the rose to steel himself against the newest onslaught. 

“Our daughter,” Jaskier adds, trying not to be sheepish. “We took her in some time ago. This is Cirilla.” His mother has her mouth covered, something calculating in her eyes, but then bustles over. 

“Hello darling, you may call me Granny, if you like. You are so lovely. Did you enjoy the gardens?” she asks Ciri. 

“I did. Lady Yennefer and I had a splendid walk. I got to touch all sorts of butterflies and caterpillars.” Ciri studies the older woman’s face. “Papa has your nose,” she decides. “It’s a nice nose.”

Jaskier’s mother chuckles, seemingly charmed though still curious. His father is grinning. It seems they approve. There has been a lack of granddaughters in the family and they seem pleased to welcome another.

“Waleska, your Papa’s oldest sister, has a daughter your age. They’ll be arriving with their father tomorrow, so you’ll have someone to get on with,” Jaskier’s father mentions. Ciri grins, actual excitement in her eyes. She’s been lacking in playmates and friends. This will be good for her, Jaskier thinks, no matter how brief their stay is. 

“And the Lady Yennefer,” Jaskier’s mother says, bowing her head, knowing when to treat someone with deference. “Welcome, madam.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Countess,” Yennefer says. “I do dote on little Ciri. It’s wonderful to see her welcomed so warmly.” Jaskier’s parents exhale at the praise, perhaps in relief - mages have been known for their tempers, but it seems like they’ve gotten on Yennefer’s good side. “That being said, it would be wonderful to be shown to our rooms so we may wash the week’s travel from our skin.”

“Thank you for watching her,” Geralt says to Yennefer as a few of the gathered housemaids scurry off to do the mage’s bidding. Yennefer simply nods and holds out a hand for Ciri to take. Ciri nods to her, but then turns to Geralt, tugs his shirt until he bends a bit so she can reach his cheek. And she kisses him, does the same to Jaskier, and then runs off to take Yennefer’s hand and go to their rooms for a bath. Jaskier feels so warm at the action, at the sight. His sisters, when his eyes flick back to them, look like they’re melting. He feels the same. 

Whatever shock and lack of surety that had been borne of Geralt’s being a witcher has all but dissipated with the arrival of Ciri. Yennefer’s scheming, no doubt. But what a good scheme it was. 

“Speaking of the week’s travel, may I be pointed in the right direction to the stable? I’d like to tend to Roach and Thistle,” Geralt says . 

“On the western side of the estate, not more than a five minutes walk,” Jaskier answers before anyone else can. “Father keep dogs, so be careful that you shut the stable door so they don’t get in and bother the horses. I’ll meet you back here?”

“Of course,” Geralt answers. Then he leans down and brushes a kiss against Jaskier’s temple. Jaskier fights not to collapse, even as his knees go weak. Their brief discussion of carte blanche hadn’t prepared him for _this_ , but Jaskier is surprised to find that Geralt knows exactly how to be the gentle lover. Maybe, Jaskier thinks, he _is_ the gentle lover and Yennefer had always been the fiery, upstart one. God, that makes _sense_. “I’ll see you after, Jaskier.” He turns. “Thank you, my lord and lady,” Geralt says, bowing his head to Jaskier’s parents again, before he’s out the door. 

“My, what an oddly charming man,” his mother mutters, almost disconcerted that Geralt’s image does not equate with his behavior.

“Very few words indeed,” his father agrees. 

“And that child, oh, she’s lovely!” his mother gushes, genuine now. 

“Julek, up here now!” Hedwig calls from the stairs. “We need to know _everything_. Mother and Father can handle the rest of the preparations before dinner, can’t you?” His parents nod and then he runs up, face burning at all the compliments and complications. He bends to hug Hedwig where she sits, then lets Waleska pull him into her embrace. 

“Upstairs, shall we?” Waleska offers, linking their arms. As Hedwig’s contraption carries her in a seat that slides slowly back up the balustrade, Jaskier and Waleska briskly mount the steps. At the top of the steps, Hedwig’s wheelchair waits. She hoists herself into it, long used to the movement, and then wheels her way down the hall beside them. They stop at Waleska’s childhood bedroom, where she’ll stay with her husband, her children in the rooms down this side of the hall. Hedwig will be on the other side of the hall. The guest rooms are in the opposite wing of the manor, where Yennefer and Ciri will be staying. He and Geralt are one more floor up, in their own suite. 

Waleska throws herself onto the bed and drags Jaskier with her. She moves so Hedwig can hoist herself onto the bed as well, helping her settle with a few pillows. 

“What is going on!?” Hedwig exclaims. 

She’s beautiful, and Jaskier isn’t just saying that because he’s biased as her brother. She’s in her mid-thirties, only a few years older than Jaskier. Her hair is darker than his, a brown that highlights red in the light. Her skin is an olive tone, her eyes as blue as his and just as wide. If she could stand, she’d be taller than him by several inches, but a raging fever as a child left her without the use of her legs. Their father had a chair with wheels, dubbed a wheelchair by a toddler Jaskier, commissioned for her. 

Waleska has lighter hair, more auburn, in waves around her face and eyes a grey-blue like their father’s. She’s forty, but the lines of age have not ravaged her face. Waleska is grinning at Jaskier’s nerves, sage and quite happy to see him happy. 

“He called you _jaskier_ ,” Waleska says, brushing a lock of Jaskier’s hair from his face. “Does he know what that means in our old tongue?”

“No,” Jaskier says quickly, making Hedwig laugh. “And don’t you be spilling!” Little yellow flower, it means. Dandelion, some use it for. Or, others still, for buttercup. He thinks again of the flowers Ciri brought him at Yennefer’s prompting. His hair had been so yellow and long as a baby, but he’d outgrown it well into his teenhood for the lighter bronze-brown locks he has now. The name had seemed like a good idea for his stage name, at the time, and it stuck. He’s sure Geralt doesn’t know what it means. And again, maybe Yennefer does, but she’s been kind enough to keep her mouth shut.

“Shush, Waleska. Answer _me_ Julian. What’s going on? You have a _husband?_ I scarcely believed you had a lover, never mind a spouse!” Hedwig snaps. Then she literally snaps her fingers in his face to steal his attention. 

“Yes, how did that happen?” Waleska asks. She wipes a smudge of dirt from his nose. That damned dusty road. “And to a _wiedźmin_ , no less?”

“I… well.” How did they meet? Was it really as random as it now seems? “I had heard of him. I found him in a tavern. And so, I followed him.”

“You… followed him,” Hedwig repeats. Her blue eyes widen and she shares a look of incredulity with Waleska. 

“Yes, and I obviously haven’t stopped.”

“And how long has this been going on?” Waleska asks, catching on rather quickly to what Jaskier _isn’t_ saying. Damn her and her Big Sister Senses.

“Um. Hmm. A… while.”

“This wasn’t important to tell us over the years because…?” 

“Well I - I didn’t want to worry you lot! Obviously,” Jaskier yelps. “Oh yes, me and my future-husband are running around, fighting monsters. Well…” Jaskier trails off. Might as well be truthful about it now. “Well, fine. He fights the monsters. I follow and watch and write music about it.”

“And he just _let_ you follow him?” Hedwig cuts in. Perfect timing, Jaskier thinks. Her comment has moved them on and nipped the older sister/younger brother spat in the bud.

“I was quite persistent! I could get a lot of good material for my music!” Jaskier insists. Because it _had_ started like that. 

“And his very dangerous job didn’t stop you?” Waleska asks, getting back to their earlier argument. 

“Well… he’s never let anything hurt me. I mean, the first adventure we were on, we got kidnapped by starving elves and even when they wanted to kill us to protect their home, he advocated for them to let me free, at least.” That much is true.. Geralt has never wanted the loss of innocent life. “He protects the innocent, even if those are seen as monsters.” He shakes his head. “And he’s always protected me.” When he looks up, both his sisters have tears in their eyes. 

Oh no. _Oh no._ They know he loves Geralt. Which, that’s the _point_ , but what if they _say_ something to Geralt? What if they comment and then Geralt will have to wonder if it’s true or if Jaskier is really that good of an actor (he’s not and Geralt knows it). 

“Tell us about him,” Hewig says, taking his hand. “Tell us what you love about him, what made you stop chasing skirts and trousers. Tell us what irks you, but that you undoubtedly find endearing. Like his lack of speech,” she teases.

“He _does_ mostly go ‘hmm’ and ‘fuck’,” Jaskier says. His sisters burst into laughter. He thinks on his wording and feels himself coloring. “No, not like - oh whatever. Listen, let me tell you about him, then.”

So he does. 

It feels so good to tell someone, the two people he trusts the most, about Geralt and how Jaskier feels about him. How he loves how righteous Geralt is, that blunt honesty many mistake for rudeness. He tells them of adventures, of Geralt’s prowess with a blade, but also how those rough hands can be so gentle on Ciri’s hair when he braids it, or how he makes sure Jaskier is always warm when they’re camping out because he knows Jaskier gets cold easily. Maybe they exchange barbs and insults, but Geralt has never been cruel about it. Geralt has saved his life in so many ways, with his words and his deeds and the fact that he let Jaskier stay with him, by his side, for so long. 

“It must have made so much sense when you finally got together,” Waleska says, running her fingers through his hair where he now lays his head in her lap. Jaskier sighs, closes his eyes so they can’t see the lie. 

“Yes,” he simply says, because even this farce feels right to Jaskier. That’s truth enough. 

“And your daughter! Oh, Zefiryna is going to be _so_ ecstatic to have another girl her age running around!” Waleska says. 

“How did that happen?” Hedwig prods. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier snorts. “But… her parents died when she was young and her grandparents were killed in a Nilfgaardian attack…” He trails off as his sisters fall quiet. “Geralt found her, took her in. He’ll say it’s all due to my instigating, but he loves her dearly.” 

“He does,” Waleska murmurs. “It’s good of you, to take in a child that may have had no one, been forced into an orphanage or labor camp or something awful.”

“Yes,” Hedwig agrees. “And I don’t see you doing very well with diapers!” Jaskier flicks her in the arm. “And the mage, how do you know her?” Hedwig continues, poking his face. “She’s going to be doing my wedding blessing, so tell me everything.”

Jaskier tenses and sits up. His sisters look to each other again, this time concerned. 

“Yennefer saved me when I was attacked by a djinn, some time ago. And then _Geralt_ saved _her_ ,” Jaskier admits. But they know him well enough that they can tell it bothers him. 

“They were together, once,” Waleska says. She always had a way at reading between the lines.

“Like you and Lorrie when we were young,” Hedwig adds, trying to make light of a situation she can tell is getting heavy. 

“Lorrie and I were a dalliance,” Jaskier says with a wave of his hand. “I always knew she was trying to get _your_ attention when she was with me, even if she didn’t realize it herself for a while. No,” he continues, looking at his hands, at that wedding band with no ceremony attached to it. “No, they’re something else. Their destinies have been tied to each other. Though, they’ll be the first to say, they don’t have the best track record as a pair.” He looks up, trying to laugh. “Do you know, when they finally ended this last time, he was just - in an awful place and he ran off after saying things and I ran off and, well, I wrote a _song_.” He snorts. “Of all things to do.”

“That’s what you do, Julek,” Waleska says. 

“Let’s hear it,” Hedwig suggests.

“Oh, it’s ghastly,” Jaskier admits, knowing full-well that it’s a hit for broken hearts wherever he goes. 

“Rubbish,” Waleska says. She gets up, snags a little child’s lute, left in the room long after she had gone. She rests it in his lap. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says. Something is telling him not to sing unless he’s ready to make a choice, he just doesn’t know what that choice is. “It’s… probably bitter.”

“Most songs of heartbreak are,” Hedwig says. 

“Fine, fine. It’s about the three of us, Geralt, Yennefer, and I.” He tunes the lute, too small for his adult hands to hold comfortably, but manages. Jaskier begins to play _Her Sweet Kiss_ . His voice still cracks and breaks when he says, from his own perspective to Geralt’s being so far away, _I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting_. This time, he doesn’t finish the last chorus. His voice trails off. 

“Julian,” Waleska says, hand to her heart. She looks to Hedwig. “Oh, Hedi!” Hedwig is wiping her eyes. 

“Why do you still sound so hurt when you sing that?” Hedwig demands. 

“Because, dear sister,” Jaskier responds with a sad smile on his face, “it still pains me so. He sent me away then. Because he was so upset about her. We’ve been through a lot, he and I.”

“Well, _you_ married him!” Hedwig says, triumph in her tone. 

“You’re right, Hedi,” Waleska says, grinning. “ _You_ married him, Julek, not the mage. And you seem to all be on good terms now, yes?”

“Yes, we are,” Jaskier says. Because it’s true. He does, in his own way, care about Yennefer. He bears her no ill will, wishes her well. He’s glad Ciri can bring her some sort of comfort for what she’s lost, without knowing the meaning of it when she lost it. And now… he can’t imagine that. He still has all his faculties in place, could run off and sire a brood of children if he so desired - but he doesn’t. 

As for _him_ being who got to marry Geralt, well. 

“So, in the end, he chose you. And that’s a good thing, baby brother,” Hedwig says. She leans over and squeezes his hand. 

Jaskier wants to cry. Because Geralt has done no such thing. Jaskier hasn’t been chosen at all. And that hurts. 

He’s saved from having to answer by a soft knock at the door. Then a voice that he knows so well says, “Pardon me my lady, but I seem to have misplaced my husband. Do you know of his whereabouts?” Jaskier worries for a moment that Geralt could have heard. But what are the chances that Geralt really just waited out there the whole time to hear Jaskier complain?

Hedwig giggles into her pillow and Waleska smiles. Even Jaskier grins a bit, letting his worry go and shaking his head. For now, he puts the knot that is Geralt and Yennefer aside. It’s not for him to untangle.

“Yes, good witcher sir, I think we may have the information you seek. You may enter,” Waleska calls. The door opens carefully and Geralt’s white-haired head peeks around it. Waleska waves him into the room and he enters, he hunches in on himself, looking awkward and like he’s trying to hide. “We’ve been hearing all types of secrets from our brother, good sir.”

“Only the good ones, I hope,” Geralt responds, voice pleasant but his eyes piercing Jaskier’s soul. His brows are drawn down, like they get when Geralt is puzzling something out. Jaskier wonders why Geralt is looking at him like that. 

“The best,” Hedwig insists. “Have you come to collect him?”

“I have,” he says, bowing his head. “Your mother had a bath drawn for us in the quarters we’ll be staying in. It was suggested we wash up before dinner. We’ll see to it that Ciri is settled and taken care of, then settle ourselves?” Geralt suggests to Jaskier. 

“Perfect,” Jaskier says, grinning up at him, still wary of that look in Geralt’s eyes. “Are you alright?” he asks, without thinking even though his sisters are right there. Geralt extends a hand to him in answer, helps him stand and doesn’t let go of his hand. He stares for a moment, their eyes boring into each other, and Jaskier wonders if eyes really are windows to the soul like they say. “Geralt?”

“I’m fine now,” Geralt says. Jaskier can feel his sisters vibrating at the sheer romance that he _knows_ isn’t purposeful on Geralt’s part. Geralt brushes a lock of hair out of Jaskier’s face and nods. Jaskier’s skin tingles with every touch. Damn Geralt. _Tone it down_ , he thinks, while viciously hoping that Geralt does no such thing. “Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” Jaskier says. He waves to his sisters. “See you at dinner.”

Down the hall, down the stairs, up the flight opposite them, and Jaskier finally feels like he can speak freely. 

_“Are_ you alright? How’s Roach? Thistle?” he asks. 

“Both fine, just tired,” Geralt assures him. They’re still hand in hand as Jaskier directs them to guest rooms. 

“Then?” Jaskier presses. “You seem… a little lost in your own thoughts.”

“I am,” Geralt admits. “It’s fine.”

“Doing alright with all of … this? The Family Pankratz?” Jaskier asks, not looking Geralt in the face as he does so. 

“Just fine. Your parents seemed to be open-minded enough, and the rest are nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Geralt says. A pause. “What you did with the chimney sweep-”

“Ah, yes, here’s Ciri’s room!” Jaskier cuts him off. They are _not_ having that conversation, not ever. He knocks, gets an affirmative answer, and enters. Ciri is in mid-air, jumping on the bed as they walk in. When she lands, she stays kneeling, looking a bit chagrined. “Enjoying yourself?” 

“Absolutely!” Ciri says, face changing to a bright smile. Jaskier prefers her this happy, even if only briefly. Yennefer has gotten her bathed and clothed, and sits freshened up herself. Both ladies wear dresses in different shades of purple. Ciri doesn’t look _too_ happy to be in a dress again, but she seems to be keeping civil about it. She keeps wiggling a bit, pulling at the sleeves to adjust. 

“You like the rooms?” Jaskier asks. “Comfortable?”

“Oh, yes!” Ciri says, sitting up. She wiggles in the dress again. Behind her, Yennefer makes a noise of dissent and Ciri stops fidgeting. “Yennefer’s asked for us to be close to one another, so they gave us a room where hers is attached to mine. I like that very much.” At Ciri”s smile, Jaskier wonders if he should tell them they do that with mothers and daughters here, a dynamic the staff must have picked up on when they came in. But he has a feeling Yennefer already knows. 

“Matching dresses?” Geralt comments as he makes his rounds about the room, checking that everything is safe and warm for the two women. Geralt’s not looking at any of them, but Jaskier sees Yennefer rolling her eyes at Geralt’s antics. Ciri doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Yes, you got _our_ daughter a dress to match yours?” Jaskier says, winking at Ciri who laughs. Geralt grunts across the room at the moniker. 

“Mine’s lilac,” Ciri says, getting off the bed and twirling in the dress for Jaskier to admire, which he does, just to see her smile. “And I think Yennefer’s is more… plum?” she offers. Yennefer looks at the silk, slung artfully across her body where she’s reclined on a chaise, and shrugs. Plum will do. 

“ _She_ wanted to match,” Yennefer insists, though Jaskier can detect a bit of embarrassment from her. 

“If I _must_ wear one, we should match!” Ciri huffs, as though they’ve had this little tiff before.

“Makes sense she’d want to match one of her parents,” Jaskier says absentmindedly as he fixes the bow on the back of Ciri’s dress. It had been lopsided and bothering him. He doesn’t know why Ciri freezes or Geralt stops doing his rounds. Doesn’t understand why Yennefer looks both startled and grateful when he looks up, why she averts her violet eyes when she says she needs to powder her nose before dinner and excuses herself, properly polite for once. 

Ciri says, “You two should get clean and I’ll sit with Yennefer when she’s done,” but then she turns and hugs Jaskier before telling him he smells and should have a bath. Geralt takes him with a large hand to his elbow, leading him out. 

“You realize you called Yennefer Ciri’s mother,” Geralt says once they're safely outside the room and down the hall. His fingers burn Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier stares at those fingers, too focused on them, for a moment, to hear anything else.

And then Geralt’s words catch up to him.

“...oh,” Jaskier says, eyes widening. Oh, that was… touchy. Oh, no, is she mad at him now? But Geralt’s face is soft, his eyes searching Jaskier’s face. So maybe Yennefer is flattered that Jaskier has labeled her as such in his mind? Grateful for his freely given, though unintentional, kindness? “What?” Jaskier doesn’t know why Geralt looks so soft. He’s going to start being obnoxious and just _asking_ if Geralt keeps up with it.

“You still surprise me, bard,” is all Geralt says, shaking his head and huffing. “Where are we sleeping?”

Jaskier leads him back across the staircases, all the way down the hall his sisters and their families sleep in, and then up the back staircase there. It leads them up another flight of stairs, and then to a landing. Up here are rooms not frequently in use. There’s a study and a library, a little kitchenette near the back, and then a set of doors on the far end. One door leads to a master bedroom, the one he used growing up. He leads them to that. Inside, their things have been left by the ridiculously large, four-poster bed, and Jaskier unpacks, looking for a decent outfit to wear to dinner. Geralt does the same, thankfully not commenting on the _single_ bed, large as it was. 

The other door in the hall leads to a bathroom with a large brass tub that could fit three people easily. There are sinks to scrub themselves at, shelves of oils, soaps, and lotions, towels warmed by the hearth, hanging on racks. Steam rises from the tub, filled with water ready to bathe in. Jaskier checks the clock on the bathroom wall - dinner will be served in an hour. If they take turns, just washing Geralt’s hair alone is going to take forever. They’ll never make it in time. 

Geralt seems to have the same idea. 

“We can share,” he says with a shrug, already getting out of his clothes. “Quicker that way. Yennefer and I once went back to back to preserve modesty. I’m sure we can do the same if you’re bothered.”

“I’m not bothered,” Jaskier insists as he fumbles with his shirt’s buttons. “I’ve seen you naked before.” Well, mostly. He hadn’t stared at Geralt’s _ass_ ets, even when he had rubbed chamomile oil into that lovely behind. His eyes had been on those strong shoulder blades. They had been much safer up there. 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier hears a splash behind him as he drops his pants and underclothes. He’s naked now, steeling himself to go into the tub. This is just - it’s _different._ Sure, they’ve bathed in front of each other before. But having a whole river or lake is one thing, while being next to each other in a bath is another. When he turns, Geralt has his back to him, as promised. He’s already scrubbing away with one of the soaps that’s scented with sage and cedarwood. Geralt’s going to smell so good after this, Jaskier can already feel himself getting weak in the knees and hard in the - well, he’d best be getting in the water before Geralt turns around to see what’s keeping him and gets an eyeful. 

The water is warm and already soapy when he steps in. His back is pressed to Geralt’s, though it probably doesn’t need to be as he has room, and Jaskier can feel every muscle and all that rough and scarred skin. It feels like they’ve done this before, because he _trusts_ Geralt. And Geralt trusts him. With that, his nerves melt into the water as he leans into the feeling, taking a little peace for himself, content. Nothing can touch him here. Geralt, his best friend, is here. Jaskier is warm and content. Ciri is safe. Yennefer was _nice_ to him. This is one of the good things about coming home and having those he considers his home with him. 

He feels the bar of soap tap him on the shoulder, Geralt passing it over, and Jaskier takes it and starts to wash. He scrubs the bar into his skin, getting rid of the dirt there, then takes a small wooden bucket that hangs on the side of the tub and fills it with water, only to dump it over his head to rinse. Behind him, he hears Geralt grunting. Jaskier peeks over his shoulder to see Geralt struggling to gather all his hair to wash. The white had been going grey with dirt. 

“Need a hand?” he calls over his shoulder, trying not to smile. He’s done it before, after all. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier takes that as a yes. He gets out of the tub and grabs some shampoos that will do wonders for Geralt’s roots, then climbs back in the tub, and kneels, this time facing Geralt’s back. It’s easier to dump water on his head, scrub the shampoo into his hair, and lather it this way. And he can make sure his _own_ bits won’t bump Geralt in the back. Maybe it’s just in Jaskier’s head, but he thinks Geralt leans into his touch, doesn’t mind if Jaskier’s hands linger on the skin of his neck. When he rinses Geralt’s hair for the final time, it’s shiny and white again.

“There,” Jaskier says, sitting back down and turning around. “All set.”

“Fit to be seen?” Geralt jokes. 

“You, my friend, are always fit to be seen,” Jaskier huffs. He grabs the shampoo, getting ready to wash his own hair. He might as well use the same kind, since he used the same soap - which _would_ have been taboo unless they were a couple. Alas, another layer to their deception. Their matching scents will alert others to their closeness. It’s a bit of a tradition, where Jaskier is from, for spouses to share the scents they use in perfumes and soaps. He should mention that at some point, shouldn’t he?

The shampoo bottle is taken from his hand. It stops Jaskier’s rambling thoughts.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, not explaining, just spilling some shampoo from the glass bottle into his hand, and then putting the bottle aside to rub the soap into Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier desperately piles suds into his lap so Geralt can’t see his rising excitement. _Why the hell is Geralt washing Jaskier’s hair?_ Jaskier wants to ask, but then Geralt might stop and he can’t have that. So he lets those short, blunt nails scrape pleasantly against his scalp, those fingers working a lather. Of course, he yelps when Geralt dumps the water over his head without warning, but he loves hearing that low laugh, the vibrations of it in Geralt’s chest practically pressed to Jaskier’s back, and my, is that, is that Geralt’s - just bobbing, butting into Jaskier’s side as the water moves around them?

He stops thinking _again_ when Geralt lowers his face to Jaskier’s freshly washed hair and presses his nose to the spiral of hair at the back of his head. 

“Smells good,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s skull. 

And the thing is, there are no servants, no parents or sisters, no one is here to see. So why?

“To dinner?” Jaskier suggests in a soft voice. He can’t quite get anything else to escape the tightness of his throat and he doesn’t know what else to say. What if he brings it up and Geralt has no good reason? What if he’s just _practicing_ at intimacy so it’s easier around people? What if Jaskier is reading into this too much?

The water sloshes as Geralt exits the tub. From the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees the movements of Geralt’s hands as he swiftly wraps his waist in a towel. When Jaskier turns fully, Geralt is holding out a towel for Jaskier as well, head turned to the side as a courtesy. Jaskier shakes himself of water and steps out, biting his lip when Geralt goes on to wrap the towel around his waist, his fingers brushing Jaskier’s belly and hip bones as he tucks the towel into itself, secure against Jaskier’s skin. Maybe Jaskier drowned in the tub and this is heaven?

“To dinner,” Geralt agrees. 


	4. Let The Earth A-Tumble, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finally gets to have a wonderful, private conversation with his parents about his life and the choices he's made. Jaskier's mother is nosey. Waleska's family storms in. Hedwig's fiancee arrives. Ciri makes a friend. Geralt gets magical heatstroke. Yennefer still thinks this is all hysterical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song sung is _Friends Are Like Jewels_ by Iron & Wine, with the lyric changed from pistol to dagger since there are no established firearms in the Witcher universe. Song Jaskier is practicing is _Autumn Town Leaves_ by Iron & Wine (why yes, I _do_ love them, what of it?) Song line reference at the end of the chapter is from _In Memoriam_ by the Oh Hellos. 
> 
> Dietrich is supposed to be medieval, fantasy German. Lorenia is supposed to be medieval, fantasy Portuguese. A lil self-rep never hurt anyone lmfao.

After dinner, Jaskier’s parents request an audience with him. In private. 

Jaskier had been afraid of that.

Waleska and Hedwig sit in the largest parlor by the fire with Yennefer across from them on a low settee, sipping his father’s best claret. Geralt sits on a chair by the fire as well, Ciri on the floor before him. She’s very still as she listens to the women’s conversation and allows Geralt to braid her hair out of her face. 

He meets Geralt’s eyes before he goes, gets a slight nod, and knows they’ll be fine. 

In his father’s study, his mother sits with a cup of tea beside the desk, his father in the seat behind it. Jaskier sits in the chair before them. 

“You know your marriage was done in poor taste,” his father says, straight to the point. Jaskier winces; it’s fair enough though, he has just sprung it all on them. “That is not to say that we disapprove of it - as the youngest, you are not entitled to much, nor do you have much duty in terms of marriage. And you know we are not parents to care who you are with, so long as they are honorable and you love each other.”

“But you didn’t even send word,” his mother continues, more serious now than she usually appears to others. Jaskier knows her usual levity is purposeful, done to gauge strangers without being caught at it, to strike when no one suspects. “And with a witcher, at that.” She sighs. “Not to mention the child.” She sips her tea. “A lovely child, yes, but I feel there is more going on with you, your husband, and daughter than you let on.”

“There is,” Jaskier admits. “But I’m not at liberty to disclose my family’s situation at present.” He can’t just blurt that they have the not-dead Lion Cub of Cintra with them, who’s being trained in magic by Yennefer and in being a witcher by Geralt, while an entire empire bites at their heels. 

“We respect that,” his father sighs. “Are you all safe?”

“For now,” Jaskier says. “Geralt keeps us safe, stows us away if he deems something too dangerous and doesn’t want to risk us.”

“But risks himself,” his mother guesses. She sips her tea again, eyebrows raised at him over the cup. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says, unsurprised at the frustration in his voice. “Which is annoying but often necessary and…” He trails off. 

“Odd for a witcher to risk himself for others unrelated to coin - or so I’ve heard,” his mother murmurs against her cup. “But a pleasant surprise.”

Jaskier purses his lips. “We do what we can. But we don’t lead an easy life, no.”

“But you love him,” his mother continues. This, it seems, is the most important piece for his parents. The good part is, this is the only truth Jaskier has to offer. 

Jaskier swallows hard. “Yes.”

“You kept him from us, why?” his father asks. 

“He’s a witcher. I’ve seen how people treat his kind. They don’t think he’s... properly human, you see.” Jaskier can’t tell them  _ I’m not married to him, he is just a friend - unfortunately for me, I said nothing because there is nothing to say! _

“That is no longer an issue,” his father says, waving it off. “He has handled himself honorably.” He sips at his brandy, offers a glass to Jaskier who declines. He needs his wits about him this week if he’s to survive and not spill any truths. “You are happy, Julian?” his father asks, eager now. His mother continues to observe him quietly from her place behind her teacup. 

“Yes,” Jaskier admits. Because he is, even past the pining. 

“And the marriage was legitimate?” his mother asks. Jaskier swallows hard. 

“Of course,” he scoffs, hoping it’s convincing. “I’m no fool.”

“But you are foolish,” his mother says with a grin, finally setting her cup on the desk. He can agree with her on that much. “Come,” she says, standing. “Let us join them while your little one still sits up. She’ll tire soon and I’d like to sit by her and hear her speak. And you, sing.”

Jaskier grimaces, but stands and leaves with his parents. Back at the parlor, Yennefer is in the middle of some story that has Hedwig in stitches of laughter and Waleska laughing into her hands. Ciri looks a bit confused and Geralt’s head is hanging in defeat, so Jaskier surmises it may not have been entirely appropriate for Ciri to hear. Not that that’s ever stopped Yennefer. 

“Ah, my lord and lady,” she says, standing to bow when they enter. Jaskier’s mother is back to fussing, though her eyes are bright as she observes everyone and everything. Jaskier had stopped by their rooms for his lute, and now he settles on the bench by the fire near Geralt. 

“Come sit by me, child,” his mother says to Ciri, who scoots over and settles her hands in his mother’s lap. They speak while Yennefer continues her conversation with his sisters, his father joining in. Geralt bumps shoulders with Jaskier, screws his face up in a way that makes his scar pull at his eye. 

“They just wanted to know what was going on with us, really,” he tells Geralt, voice low and lips close to his ear. Geralt stiffens. “Don’t worry, they believed me.”  _ Because they can see how in love with you I am _ , Jaskier doesn’t say. 

“Are you to play for us soon, then?” Geralt asks, nodding to Filavandrel’s lute in Jaskier’s grasp. 

“It seems, whenever my mother deems fit.”

He tunes it a bit by the fire, humming under his breath, picking here and there, with Geralt a weighted presence by his side. Soon, Ciri is yawning, Yennefer rubbing her eyes, blinking furiously to stay present. 

“Maybe a song before we retire?” Jaskier’s mother suggests. “It has been so long since I heard you play, my dear.” She turns to Geralt. “Do you have a favorite song of my son’s?” she asks. The question is pointed, though it has been said with a high, lighthearted voice. 

Geralt doesn’t panic, merely grins in that way that makes him look feral with too many teeth showing under a twisted scar, and says, “My lady, it’s not fit for anyone’s ears but ours.” It has Jaskier’s mother in fits of laughter as his father chuckles and his sisters grin. Yennefer’s eyes are, curiously, on Jaskier. Her lips twitch. Jaskier looks away. On the floor, leaned against his mother’s legs, Ciri has her head in the woman’s lap, her eyes closed as she drifts. 

“Something soft for the little one,” Jaskier says, fiddles with his strings, and starts up a sweet, lazy pattern of picking on the strings. Everyone hushes, the crackling of the fire the only thing heard above the music. 

“Dreamless sleep will fall like a deep, poisoned well   
On the steeple birds, and this red-light hotel.”

Geralt presses against him, really listening. Jaskier swallows, wets his lips, fills the silence of his voice with the lute.

“So lay your dagger down, Granny.   
The company men never came to you.   
But don't unknit your brow, Granny,   
The mice in the yard ate the potted plants you grew.”

“Oh, Granny loves this one!” Hedwig says, hands clasped as Jaskier plays a bit of filler. “She comes two days before the wedding. You’ll have to play it for her again.”

“That you shall,” his father agrees. It’s his mother they speak of, after all. Jaskier nods and begins the next verse.

“Pour your bitter tea for our sweet, liquored host.   
Perfect polished stones but this breeze beats you both.”

“It’s so lovely,” Waleska says. “Your voice hasn’t changed. That’s a good thing,” she adds when Geralt huffs. Jaskier ignores them, finishes with,

“So lay your dagger down, Granny   
The duty of men never fell to you.   
When you unknit your brow, Granny   
Your friends, they are jewels, twice as beautiful and few.” 

His eyes meet Yennefer’s at the last line, and she finally allows her lips to quirk up in a smile, inclining her head to him so slightly. Maybe this whole fiasco has been good for the two of them, if for nothing else. It’s so good to be with his sisters, to see his parents doing well. But this deeper understanding they are getting for each other is so valuable. Friends, Jaskier thinks, who parent a child together. Who’d have thought - a family can be a sorceress, a witcher, a bard, and their magical, royal child.

They get Ciri to bed, say goodnight to Yennefer who promises Ciri will be safe through the night, and then head up to his quarters themselves. Jaskier strips and throws on an old nightshirt that he finds in a dresser and finds a long one that would never fit him to loan to Geralt. Geralt frowns at it, then shrugs, and puts it on. It fits, just barely, but it’s better than sleeping in his own travel-grimey clothes, which would be a shame and inappropriate in such a clean, grand bed. 

He takes one side, Geralt takes the other, and Jaskier prays they don’t meet in the middle, ever. The bed is huge, has a velvet canopy they can draw around it if it gets too cold. Someone’s already lit a fire, so the room is toasty. A hot pan has been laid at the foot of the bed under the covers, so the bed is warm. He climbs in, hating how cold it gets in the night in this country, even when the days are wonderful, brisk spring. 

Geralt settles beside him, more than an arm’s length away,  _ far _ more. But the bed is warm and comfortable, so it feels so much closer than it is. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “For. Doing this.”

“It was my idea,” Geralt says simply, looking up at the ceiling. “You’re warm?” he asks.

“Quite,” Jaskier assures him, trying not to read into it. Geralt is always asking. Because he knows Jaskier gets cold. And then complains, which annoys Geralt. So. 

“You’re different with them than you are performing,” Geralt observes, voice soft, surprised even.

“It’s my family. They aren’t a performance,” Jaskier scoffs.

“Your mother asked me my favorite of your songs,” Geralt continues. Where is he going with this?

“Yes, I was there. Thanks for not saying the whole ‘filling-less pie’ thing, by the way. She’d have lost it,” Jaskier says. “And not in the good way.”

“I lied,” he continues. Jaskier turns to him, shifting the sheets as he goes. What? 

“What?”

“About the song,” Geralt explains. His brow is furrowed, like he’s concentrating very hard, but Jaskier isn’t sure what he’s concentrating on. 

“Yeah, I know, you made a dirty joke instead of telling her you don’t like my music.”

“I lied to you about not liking your music,” Geralt says in response. 

What? “What?”

“There’s one… with the sea, the mountains. Love, I think, though unspoken. I don’t know what it’s called. I think there’s - a traveller.” He grimaces. “I can’t remember what you called it,” he repeats. “But I like that one.”

Jaskier is less concerned about the name of the song and more riveted by the fact that Geralt  _ likes _ his music, even if it’s solely one song. He likes it. Geralt  _ does _ like his music. Jaskier stares at Geralt, feeling like he’s hung the moon in the sky with the stars and set it alight, just for Jaskier. It feels like it, certainly. 

“Okay,” Jaskier says, unsure what else to say. “We can figure it out.” He stops. “If you’d like.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier watches the firelight dance across his face, casting half into shadow, highlighting the hollows of his eyes. They flutter closed and Jaskier still stares. He’s so warm, but it has nothing to do with the sheets. It has everything to do with love. 

* * *

The next day, Dietrich and the children arrive. 

Waleska is glowing at the sight of her family. Dietrich, a tall and lithe man with a hooked nose, comes in holding their five year old son, Dagobert, the boy’s hair as curled and golden as Jaskier’s was at that age. The eldest at 19, Tanek, is holding little Kacper, ten years old and able to walk but refusing to as he hadn’t wanted to leave the carriage. Walking side by side are the next eldest, Marcek at 15, and Zefiryna at 13, smack in the middle of her brothers. They all have dark hair like their mother, save for the little one. 

“How was the trip?” Waleska asks Dietrich who hands Dagobert to her. Zefiryna hugs her mother’s waist, Kacper squirms from his brother’s arms and hangs onto his mother’s hand. 

“Long,” Tanek says. Beside him, Marcek nods. 

“But worth it,” Dietrich says, kissing her quickly. He turns to Jaskier. “Julian!”

“Dietrich,” he responds. They grasp arms, and Dietrich pats his back. Then he turns from Jaskier, leans down to kiss Hedwig. Kacper has left his mother to sit in Hedwig’s lap instead, arms around her neck as he chats to her about the journey. Dietrich nods to Geralt and smiles kindly at Ciri, though his eyebrows quirk in confusion as to who they are. “My husband,” Jaskier says, dragging Geralt forward. “Geralt of Rivia. And our daughter, Cirilla.”

“You can call me Ciri,” Ciri says, aiming the comment to Zefiryna. She waves. Zefiryna looks at her mother excitedly and runs over to Ciri. 

“I’m Zefiryna - you can call me Zefka.” She looks up at Geralt and his scarred, passive face. “Excuse me, Uncle Julian’s husband?” Geralt raises an eyebrow, ignoring Dietrich’s heated whispers with Waleska about Geralt’s status and marriage with Jaskier. “Can Ciri and I go play? In the room  _ I _ stay in, Granny has made sure that I have chess and loads of games to play with. The boys never include me, you see.”

“If Ciri wants to go, she may,” Geralt says, eyes on the little girl. Ciri nods. “Yell if you need me,” he adds, his lips twitching into a smile. Ciri smiles at the joke too, squeezes his hand, and then follows Zefiryna off. Jaskier watches them go, letting Waleska explain to Dietrich. He just wants to hole up somewhere and write a song or two, maybe avoid his family a bit. 

“Oh, Geralt!” his mother says, coming in, red-faced. She stops at the sight of her grandsons, daughters, and son-in-law. “Oh, heavens. The lot of you have finally arrived. Dietrich, do settle with the small ones. Tanek, Marcek, you boys have gotten so tall. And Kacper already with Auntie Hedwig, you rascal. Can’t you stand alone, yet?” The little boy smiles as she pinches his cheek. “And, the baby. Wonderful, just wonderful. Dagobert looks like Julian did, really,” she says to Geralt. 

“You needed something?” he asks, cutting through her chatter. 

“Ah, yes, if you could assist me in the back with some of the decorations - you’re much taller than the servants. I would be much obliged to you,” she says. Jaskier wants to call her bluff, wants to tell her not to bother interrogating Geralt - he won’t crack.

But Geralt nods and says, “Of course, madam.” Jaskier’s mother titters, absolutely thrilled, and leads Geralt’s silent form outside. 

Jaskier spends the rest of the afternoon sneaking glimpses of Geralt outside in the back with his mother, reaching the things she or the servants can’t, stringing up high garlands of grapes and ribbons with the staff, steadying ladders, cutting wood, even. His mother babbles at him and he responds briefly, though Jaskier wonders  _ how _ briefly.

“Can you stop spying on your husband and our mother for a moment and help me with this clasp?” Hedwig says. He’s supposed to be helping her with her veil and the gauze that needs to be attached to it. Jaskier huffs and moves away from the window, walking over to her and adjusting the clasp she’s mentioned. “What are you so afraid of?

“Why do you think I kept him away for so long?” he mutters. 

“What, do you think she’s going to torture him? You think he’s going to spill secrets?” 

“No,” Jaskier says, while thinking,  _ yes,  _ and getting back to work.

Through the afternoon, he checks on Ciri a few times and has to stop himself from laughing when he realizes she’s taught his niece how to play  _ knucklebones _ . They seem to be having a good time of it, talking of climbing trees the next day. She waves, assures him they’ve had their midday meal, and they go back to betting and playing. 

At some point, he gets tasked with watching Dagobert, which is just as well. They go to the main parlor, where the toddler sits on Jaskier’s lap and plays with the lute until he falls asleep against Jaskier’s chest in the armchair they’re in. Jaskier must doze off as well, because the next time he’s conscious, it's to a calloused hand gently stroking his face. He blinks awake and there’s Geralt, kneeling by his chair, the back of his fingers still against Jaskier’s cheek. There’s a soft look in his eyes, his gaze drifting to Jaskier and the toddler still asleep on his lap, against his chest. Jaskier feels incredibly vulnerable, wishes he knew what Geralt was thinking. 

“What are you thinking?” he says, cursing his lack of filtering through his own thoughts. 

“That you…” Geralt trails off. He shakes his head, as though frustrated with himself. His thumb rubs over Jaskier’s lips and Jaskier can’t feel his toes, or his fingers, or anything but that thumb against his mouth. Geralt is sweaty, face smeared with dirt. It should be disgusting, but Jaskier wants to be kissed on the mouth by that mouth, wants his hands to be held by those hands. 

He gets dry lips against his forehead instead, which is more than he thought he’d get. Jaskier listens for a family member’s footsteps, a servant going by, anything to explain Geralt making Jaskier’s heart melt and drip between his ribs. But the house is silent. 

“Dinner,” Geralt says. “I’ll be down for dinner after I bathe. Your mother had her way with me today.” He huffs as he stands, gives them one last look, and then is off in the direction of their quarters. 

Jaskier sits, dazed, until Dragobert wakes and wishes for his mother. Then Jaskier is off to the kitchens in search for something sweet to keep the little thing settled while they search for Waleska. Thankfully, Waleska happens to be in the kitchens with their mother, catching up on the day. Yennefer is there too, finally emerging from her chambers after having spent the whole day preparing the ritual for the wedding. Waleska takes her son, asks Jaskier why he looks so flushed. Jaskier makes up some lie about being close to the fire for a while. Yennefer laughs at him with her eyes. Jaskier wants to stick his tongue out at her, but his mother is there. 

Speaking of, she says, “Oh, your Geralt was quite helpful this afternoon. His arms are the perfect length to reach and hang everything outside.”

“You used my husband as a decorator,” he says blandly. “Great use of a witcher, mother.”

“There are no monsters here for him to fight,” she says, flapping a hand at him as she samples the bread the baker has pulled out for dinner. “He kept calling me ‘madam’ or ‘my lady’, it was exhausting. I asked him to call me ‘mum’ or by name, but he got all stiff and awkward. Poor boy.”

“Witchers don’t really get mothered. He scarcely even remembers his own,” Yennefer says. “He must have been very confused. Well done,” she laughs. 

“I’ll… just check he’s alright,” Jaskier says, nervous. It never does well to bring up parents that  _ aren’t _ Vesemir with Geralt - especially mothers. Jaskier dashes out, ignoring the women’s tittering laughter that follows him. He makes it to their suite, knocks on the bathroom door, and opens it to find Geralt sitting in the tub with his knees drawn up to his chest. His chin rests on his knee caps, his hair over his shoulders, the ends wet. The candles lend a low light to the room that  _ just _ makes Geralt’s eyes shine unnaturally, like an animal. Geralt seems so small in that tub, pulled into himself.

“Hmm,” he mutters at Jaskier’s entrance. 

“Everything alright?” Jaskier asks, shutting the door. “My mother said she was bothering you all day.”

“She’s interesting. She tested me. Asked me probing questions about you. You’re lucky I’m not expressive. She’d have seen my surprise and known the ruse.”

“What did she say?” Jaskier asks. He rolls up his sleeves, kneels by the tub, picks up the sponge, and starts to wash Geralt’s back. He can’t help it. He sees the man and is possessed by the awful urge to touch, touch,  _ touch _ . To his credit, Geralt says nothing. After a few strokes of Jaskier’s sponge, he unfolds from himself. It’s a start. 

“I didn’t know your eldest sister inherited your father’s cloth trading company,” Geralt starts. 

“She only runs the shops for now. When he retires, she and her husband will run the whole deal,” Jaskier explains. “And Hedwig, she got my mother’s family’s dairy farm. She runs the business with her soon-to-be wife.”

“And you got Granny’s cottage and a pension,” Geralt chuckles. 

“I got freedom, really,” Jaskier admits. “No responsibility. I get to be with you…” He trails off, hands stilling. “Uh.”

“You got danger. But I understand that’s your choice,” Geralt says. Jaskier rolls his eyes, moves around the tub, washes Geralt’s chest, sponge tracing over old scars. 

“Yes, Geralt. I chose you,” Jaskier says with a huff and a roll of his eyes. Because he knows Geralt won’t choose him, but that doesn’t mean Jaskier can’t do so. But then Geralt is grabbing his wrists, dripping water all over him. Jaskier frowns, looks up, and is shocked at the devastated look on Geralt’s face, eyes wide and mouth open. “What? Did I hurt you?” Geralt holds him. Searches his eyes. He looks so upset, without saying a word, every line of his face screaming with tension. How does he manage that? “Geralt.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice rumbling from his chest. “I…”

“Yes, you?” Jaskier says. He looks down at where Geralt’s fingers wrap around the entirety of his wrist. He frowns, “Are you alright? My mother said she was talking nonsense about mothers. Was that it?”

Geralt lets go, swallows hard, and says, “She asked me to call her ‘mum’.” He snorts, still out of sorts, shaking his head with a dazed look on his face. “I scarcely remember my own and hold no affection for her.”

“Yennefer said as much,” Jaskier admits, putting the sponge aside. He folds his arms on the rim of the tub, leans his head on them. “Ignore my mother. She’s trying to push your buttons, get a better sense of who her son has shacked up with.” 

“And who have you shacked up with?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier snorts. “Fishing for compliments, sir witcher? Very unlike you.” But he thinks. How would he describe Geralt, in general? “Someone that cares about life, family, and love. A protector.”

“Not many would agree,” Geralt points out. 

“Not many know you as I do,” Jaskier counters. He shrugs. They stare at each other a bit more, then Jaskier stands and gets Geralt a towel. “Come on. A warm meal in you, some time by the firelight with my nephews acting the fool, and you’ll be right as rain.” Geralt huffs and gets out, walking over for the towel. In a move that probably looks more confident than he feels, Jaskier wraps the towel around Geralt’s waist, tucks it into its own folds against Geralt’s hip, and exhales. “To dinner?” he asks. 

Geralt presses his lips together hard as he tries and fails to suppress a grin that comes out looking quite fond, if Jaskier says so himself.

“To dinner.”

* * *

The day after, Lorenia arrives. It’s three days before the wedding. 

Jaskier sees her first, sneaking up behind Hedwig. He’s sitting out at a table in the gardens with his sisters, a trellis for the swirling grapevines above them. In a chair across from Hedwig at the table, Jaskier has been figuring out what songs to play for the wedding. She had asked him that morning to lead the company their parents had hired for their entertainment - at least for the important songs. He’d graciously accepted. Waleska is folding napkins for the reception dinner, something she could have pawned off to a servant, but Jaskier knows his sisters find pleasure in doing little things for each other, like this. Meanwhile, Hedwig is trying samples of the desserts that would be served. Under a nearby crab-apple tree, Geralt is giving Ciri and Zefyna a quick lesson on how to properly climb, though forbidding them from the top branches, warning they’re too high to be safe. Both girls are in trousers, hands on their hips, watching him aptly. Waleska’s two eldest sons are with Dietrich doing some last minute hunting with the hired hunters and trappers. The two youngest are inside with their grandmother, taking a rest. 

Sneaking up behind Hedwig, about to catch the woman unawares, is her fiancée, Lorenia. 

As he watches Lorenia prepare to catch her fiancée unawares, Jaskier wonders how he and she were ever interested in each other. Lorenia is beautiful, he won’t deny that. Her skin is black, her hair a rusty brown that frizzes in the heat. Her eyes are a deep, hunter green, accentuated by her high cheekbones. But where Jaskier would rather write about the wonders of the world and read about them to boot, Lorenia is all about numbers and science, how magic functions and why. She’s sensitive to Sources and Power, though not an actual mage. He’s glad Yennefer had agreed to go into town with his father, or else he’s sure the two would be getting into trouble already. Originally a friend of Waleska’s from finishing school, she’d come for a summer where Jaskier had courted her, despite her being several years older. That had ended with the summer, and, come the fall, Lorenia was courting Hedwig. 

“Guess who?” Lorenia asks, hands over Hedwig’s eyes. Hedwig spits out the piece of pie in her mouth and turns in her chair, beaming up at Lorenia. The first thing she does is tug her down for a kiss, making both Jaskier and Waleska laugh. 

“You saw her a few days ago!” Waleska says, another folded napkin put aside. She’s been folding them into different flowers.

“And don’t you miss your husband when he’s gone? Aren’t you excited when he’s back?” Hedwig pouts. 

Waleska and Jaskier look at each other, think for a moment, and then answer in unison, “I suppose.” They grin madly at each other when Hedwig groans. 

“Is that Julian all grown up?” Lorenia says, taking a seat between Hedwig and Jaskier. The women stay with their hands tightly clasped together. “Not running around with someone new? And what’s this with you agreeing about spouses? I don’t see anyone around who I think would put up with you.” She winks. “It’s been too long, dear.”

“It has,” Jaskier admits. He barely recognizes her, she’s so much older than the last time he saw her. Gentle lines grace her face, similar to Waleska’s very thin wrinkles. There’s a streak of grey going through her curls. He leans across and kisses her cheek in greeting. 

“And look again,” Waleska says as she leaves another napkin folded. Jaskier wonders when she’ll tire and ask a servant to take over. He’s betting on another 20 napkins before she, for lack of a better word, folds. Waleska nods to Geralt who is now sitting under the tree in his shirtsleeves. Ciri and Zefiryna have made it to the lower branches of the tree above him and are picking fruit. Geralt leans against the trunk, watching Roach and Thistle grazing in the field closest to this side of the garden. With the tree casting shadows over his face, he looks so serene, surreal, and sleepy. 

“Wait,  _ him?”  _ Lorenia chokes, her eyes falling on Geralt. She squints at him, takes him in. Jaskier can see her eyes widen when Geralt’s gold-eyed gaze flicks over to them for a moment, then moves on to the children in the trees. “Gods, is he a  _ witcher?” _ He nods. Jaskier can’t say he’s too surprised that Lorenia is this familiar with magic and its users. Being sensitive to magic, she had always actively searched for any and all information about it to familiarize herself with what she was sensing. “You married a witcher?” she gasps.  _ “Julian _ , _ ” _ she coos. “The scandal!”

“Come off it,” Jaskier mutters, playing with his lute and resolutely not looking her in the face. They’ve fallen right into their old teasing, it seems. “What are you up to these days, besides sitting in your own estate and running the farm with Hedwig?”

“I’m a healer in Azory - tending to the people I preside over; a sight more than you, if that blasted lute’s presence means you’re still picking at it for coin. What have you been up to, besides marrying scary men?”

“The blonde-haired girl is his daughter,” Hedwig adds. “Adopted, of course.”

“What!?” Lorenia crows, then bursts into laughter. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” 

“Why is it so hard to believe I grew up a bit?” Jaskier pouts. He sneaks a look over and Geralt is now wandering the garden, looking at the different flowers his parents keep. He knows there are kinds Geralt probably has never seen before. His parents have always been eccentric about their gardens. Jaskier hopes he enjoys it. Ciri and Zefiryna have left the tree and are now heading to the horses in the field. Everyone is content, it seems, but him. 

“I never thought you could,” Lorenia says, blunt and honest. “Grow old, yes. Grow up? Eh.”

“Lorrie,” Hedwig admonishes. 

“I’m just being honest, my love,” Lorenia assures her. “I mean no insult. Julian knows.”

“Oh do I?” Jaskier says. “Maybe I should call my big, scary husband over to protect my honor,” he jokes. 

“Oh please do,” Lorenia says, a glint in her eye. “I do so want to speak with him. I’ve never met a witcher before.”

“He’s not a novelty piece in a manor, Lorrie,” Jaskier protests, but then Lorenia is yelling, “Witcher!” and Geralt staggers from a plant and looks up. Jaskier hides his face, especially when Geralt comes over. He’s sweaty from the sun, which has been bright all day, a fact that precedes a cold night in the country. Jaskier is going to freeze, gods. “Lorrie, this is Geralt of Rivia.”

“Geralt of Rivia, I am the Countess of Azory, Lorenia de Lucrezia. You may call me Lorrie,” Lorenia says with a smile. She assesses him, eyes raking up and down his body, appreciating the view and cataloguing all she comes across. Jaskier is a bit nervous, he’ll admit. Lorenia is… observant.

“You may call me Geralt,” Geralt allows. 

“Your ring and necklace are enchanted,” she says next. Geralt’s eyebrows go up but he doesn’t do anything else. “Why?”

“My guild,” he responds, touching the wolf’s head necklace. “Lets me know when there’s magic afoot. Which there isn’t, so you’re just sensitive.” He looks contemplative as he touches the ring that matches Jaskier’s. “My wedding band. Just a little protection charm to keep us both safe - as a precaution. His ring’s connection will tug on mine if he’s in danger.”  _ Oh, _ Jaskier thinks to himself,  _ that must be the runes? Or maybe just the symbols on the outer band. Then what about the bloody runes I can’t read on the inner band?  _ A mystery for another day, it seems. 

“You bought enchanted wedding rings?” Lorenia giggles. She takes Jaskier’s hand and touches his. “What fine jewels.”

“He made them,” Jaskier says, thoughtlessly, really. Everyone stills, even Geralt. “Uh.”

“You  _ made  _ your weddings bands?” Lorenia says, sounding impressed. “Enchanted them with a small protection charm. A few runes etched in. Did you pick the jewels to inlay in the silver?” she asks, still assessing Jaskier’s ring.  _ It’s actual silver? _ Jaskier thinks. He hadn’t known that. A sight fancier than things he’d gotten from  _ actual _ past lovers. When he looks at Geralt, the man’s eyebrow twitches in irritation. 

“They match Jaskier’s eyes,” he explains, as though she should have figured that out already. But Jaskier snatches his hands back, hiding his face in them. Why did Geralt have to go and call him  _ that _ in front of  _ Lorenia _ of all people?

“I’m sorry -  _ what _ did you just call him?” she cackles. Lorenia clutches her stomach with the force of it. Hedwig is trying not to laugh and Waleska is shaking her head as she folds. Geralt frowns. 

“What?”

“Do you know what that name even means?” Lorenia asks. 

“It’s my stage name!” Jaskier cuts in with. “Lorenia, for the love of all things good. Don’t ruin my marriage - it’s been so good so far.”

“That will hardly ruin anything,” Geralt insists. It’s nice to hear, but he’s interested now.  _ No _ .

“I’m checking on the girls,” Jaskier says, leaving the table and his sisters’ snickering. He’s not fast enough to avoid hearing Lorenia explain as he walks away, about the flowers and the hair - what  _ jaskier _ translates to. 

“But he isn’t blonde?” Geralt says in confusion and Jaskier can feel his eyes on his retreating back. Ciri grins up at him when he comes over and throws himself onto the ground. Nearby, Thistle noses at Zefiryna’s pockets for more sugar cubes, making the young girl laugh. Roach lowers her head to the top of Jaskier’s, nickers into his hair, blowing it around, then gently pushes her nose against his face. 

“Yes, yes, I love you, too, Roach,” he mutters, a bit put out at being chased from the table with the adults by humor at his expense. It’s all fine for a few blessed moments, and then he hears Hedwig scream. 

Jaskier is on his feet, Ciri is grabbing the horses by their bridles to steady them, Zefiryna is looking over shocked. He can see, at the table, that Geralt is nowhere to be found. Lorenia is kneeling, Hedwig is covering her mouth, and Waleska is running around the table to meet Lorenia. 

Which means  _ Geralt _ is on the ground. That usually never happens. Unless something is wrong.

“Stay here,” he tells Ciri, and jogs over. 

Geralt is conscious, if not dazed. He’s staring up at the sky in confusion, the trellis above them casting odd shadows on his body. Jaskier drops to his knees beside Lorenia, presses a hand to Geralt’s reddening face. He’s usually so pale, this amount of color is shocking. 

“What happened?” he asks, afraid. “Geralt, dear, what are you feeling?”

“Hot,” he admits, blinking rapidly. His pupils are thin, thin vertical slits. 

“You feel warm,” Jaskier admits knowing it’s probably not helpful. “Lorrie?”

“Hmm, did you touch a fire plant?” Lorenia asks, rubbing something between her thumb and forefinger that she had swiped off Geralt’s face. It’s reddish dust. Suddenly, Geralt staggering from a plant when he was called to them earlier makes sense. 

“A what?” Geralt asks. 

“They’re only native to Lettenhove. You’ve probably never seen one before, so don’t feel too foolish. The whole plant is red: stem, leaves, roots - and the flower looks like a lily,” Lorenia says. “Did you touch it?”

“Yes,” Geralt grunts. He’s sweating profusely. He’s all blotchy and red. It does nothing for his looks and irritates his scar. He swipes at his face to scratch, but Jaskier catches his hand and holds it. Geralt will just end up getting that dust in his eyes. Jaskier had done this once, as a curious child. It had been horrible, like a fever burning him from the inside out. 

“We need to get him into a cold bath with ice salts,” Lorenia says as she stands. Waleska stands with her, running into the house to get the salts and have someone run the water. “He’ll be freezing afterward, but it’ll stop the effects of the dust from the flower.” She tsks at Geralt where he’s weakly trying to sit up. Jaskier ignores his own panic to help Geralt stand. Seeing a grown man, a witcher no less, splayed on the ground like that had been a bit terrifying. Geralt’s skin is clammy - he’s sweat through his clothes. 

“Is he alright?” comes a soft voice. Jaskier looks up. Ciri is standing with Zefiryna, face contorted in worry. The horses are back in the stables.

“M’fine,” Geralt says as Jaskier slowly helps him stand. 

“He passed out from the heat, briefly,” Jaskier explains as Geralt grunts. “Oh hush,” he admonishes. “It happens. I’m sure Zefka told you about the fire plants.” This time, directed at Ciri.

“You touched one?” Ciri gasps. “Oh Ge- Father,” she says, catching herself. 

“He just needs an icy bath and a nap,” Jaskier says, leading Geralt inside. Gods, but he’s heavy and Jaskier doesn’t think anyone could even be in good enough shape to help lift a slightly deadweight witcher. “Stay in the gardens, with Hedwig.”

Jaskier is trying not to let anyone see how worried he is, especially Geralt. He’s all for being this close to the other man, but he would have preferred better circumstances. He waves off the servants who try to help them and lugs Geralt’s large, sweaty body up the stairs to their suite, panting by the time they get there. Waleska and a servant have already run the bath and sprinkled in the salts, the crystals turning the water icy cold. Geralt is grimacing, but he’s far too flushed and feels like an open flame when touched. 

“I can take it from here,” he tells Waleska, who’s looking quite worried still. 

“Come get me if you need help,” Waleska says. “I’m a mother - I’ve seen it all.” But she nods to the servant who’s a bit caught up in staring at a sweaty Geralt in an open-shirt, his chest on display, hair and skin glistening. “Dear?” she says to the young woman, trying not to laugh. 

“Yes, ma’am!” the servant says, snapping out of it. Her cheeks go as red as Geralt’s as she runs out of the bathroom, a softly chuckling Waleska on her heels. 

“Let’s get you out of those,” Jaskier suggests, fingering the clothes, but Geralt shakes his head and staggers to the tub. He chucks himself in head first, splashing water all over the floor, and completely submerging himself. Jaskier stands in shock, watching bubbles rise to the surface. Then Geralt’s head comes up too, and Jaskier sighs in relief. He goes over to kneel by the tub, knees dragging through puddles. Geralt leans his head on the rim and groans. “Better?”

“Much,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. Jaskier kneels right behind where Geralt’s head is, the metal rim digging into the soft part at the back of his skull. Jaskier gently adjusts Geralt’s head until it’s resting against Jaskier’s chest. The water that drips onto him is so icy it shocks him, but in a moment, his skin warms it. Geralt opens bloodshot eyes and dazedly looks up at him. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Jaskier laughs. “You’ll go blue soon if you stay in there too long.”

“Better than that feverish heat,” Geralt mutters. He turns his head, pressing closer to Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier feels his heart constrict. Geralt doesn’t look like he’ll realize or mind much, so Jaskier strokes his face, the skin freezing now under his fingers. 

“You’ll catch cold like this,” Jaskier admonishes. 

“No, I won’t,” Geralt argues weakly. “Witcher, remember?”

“Oh, so now witchers are immune to everything?” Jaskier teases. “Save it.” 

“Something like that,” Geralt mumbles. He lays in the water, soaking, and at some point, Jaskier realizes Geralt has fallen asleep. Jaskier has been with some interesting people in his life. One lord he’d been with had an obsession with hands and feet. A handmaiden he’d dallied with  _ only _ liked it in the arse. He’s heard that Yennefer had liked having sex on a stuffed unicorn of all things, before it had broken under their weight- thank  _ goodness _ . But Geralt is the  _ only _ person he’s ever known who could just fall asleep anywhere. 

“Absolutely not, you brute,” Jaskier says, though he doesn’t really mean it. “Get up. We’re drying you off and then going to bed for the afternoon.” He flicks cold water over Geralt’s face and gets no response, which is terrifying because Geralt already has a slow pulse, so he breathes shallowly and is always so pale. He looks like he could be dead. “Geralt!” he yells in the man’s ear. Nothing. 

Jaskier tries a few things. Smelling salts. More cold water, but his hands start to freeze. And that’s worrying, because Geralt’s lips are going purple. He tugs the man’s hair. He pinches Geralt’s cheek and then runs to the other side of the bathroom, in case Geralt wakes up and is feeling murdersome at the hit. But nothing wakens him. What is Jaskier supposed to do? Kiss him like a damsel in one of his ballads and hope he wakes? This isn’t true love’s first kiss. 

In the end, he settles for getting a candle and passing the flame quickly over the tip of Geralt’s finger. Then he runs.

_ “Fuck,” _ Geralt snarls bolting upright in the tub. His eyes are so bloodshot. And angry, can’t forget angry. Jaskier is on the other side of the room again, glad that Geralt is awake, though wary of his hands, looking to strike. 

“Oh look you’re alive,” he says, putting the candle down. “Sorry about that, but you were going comatose. Out. Dry off. Then, to bed.” He leaves the bathroom, a sigh of relief on his breath as he hears water sloshing and Geralt grunting. He goes to their room, makes sure the fire is high and bright. Someone’s already put a hot pan at the bottom of the bed, so that’s taken care of. Jaskier goes about, getting the softest, warmest sleeping shirt in the largest size he can find. It takes him a minute, having to run about to spare rooms with spare clothes for guests that may need them after a hunt, but he finds one, and it’s clean if a bit musty smelling from being in a wooden drawer for so long. 

By the time he brings it back, Geralt is just peeking out of the bathroom. 

“Here,” he says, shoving it into the man’s arms. “Wear that and come to bed.” He has to be gruff, Jaskier reminds himself. If not, he’ll succumb to all that scarred muscle on display. 

To his credit, Geralt throws on some underclothes, the shirt, and then flops onto the bed. He curls up on the side closest to the fire and stays there. Jaskier just watches in morbid fascination. Geralt hasn’t even pulled up the covers. So Jaskier does that, right up to the man’s chin, tucks it in around him to keep him insulated, and then creeps out of the room. 

He finds Ciri in the main parlor, face and hands dirty from her playing. She’s sitting nervously by Yennefer, who has returned. She raises an eyebrow at Jaskier. 

“Well?”

“He’ll be fine. He’s just resting now,” Jaskier says. Ciri sighs in relief and grins. Yennefer lowers her eyebrow. Jaskier  _ tries _ not to roll his eyes. “How was your romp through town?”

“Fine,” Yennefer says, brushing it off. “Ciri, you wanted to show me where you and Zefiryna were playing?”

“I think you’ll like this side of the garden!” Ciri says. “We didn’t see it the first day we came in.”

“And what am I to do?” Jaskier pouts. He knows Lorenia and Hedwig are wrapped up in each other, Waleska is probably doing something or the other for the wedding, and his mother and the babies are still asleep. He doesn’t even have Dietrich and his older nephews to bother. Granny won’t be here until tomorrow. 

“Go wait for Geralt to wake up,” Yennefer scoffs. “Someone has to.” Then she stands, throws those dark curls over a shoulder, violet eyes flashing in her brown face, and extends her hand to Ciri to lead her outside. They leave, and Jaskier stares after them for a moment before returning upstairs. Geralt is still out cold. Jaskier changes into his sleeping shirt, grabs his lute, and sits on the bed beside Geralt. If it took flaming pain to wake Geralt the first time, Jaskier doubts some playing will bother him now. 

* * *

Geralt is still sleeping a few hours later. Dinner is rolling around. Jaskier doubts Geralt will be up for the meal. Jaskier is practising some fingerpicking for a newer song. He wonders if it’s appropriate for the wedding, thinks it over, and decides to play it for Waleska later. She’d be able to tell him. 

Geralt has moved enough in his sleep that he’s rolled to face Jaskier. The flush is gone from his face, which is a good thing, his lips no longer purple from cold. At least there’s that. 

“Mice move out when the field is cut   
Serpents curl when the sun comes up   
Songbirds only end up where they're going.   
Some get rain and some get snow   
Some want love and some want gold   
I just want to see you in the morning…”

He trails off. 

“Hmm. No. No, no. Something more. Last line implies love, so narrator  _ also _ wants love, then why say that  _ some _ want love when we’ll just reference it again?” Jaskier mutters. He musses a hand through his hair and thinks. Hard. Beside him, Geralt snuffles in his sleep. “Yes, yes, obviously,” Jaskier responds, as though Geralt had been intelligible. “But it has to flow!” Another snuffle, maybe a growl, from Geralt. “Of course, you’d say that!” Jaskier responds. “You’ve got no ear for music. You’re far from one of my kind. You’re all... all… blood and flesh and bone…” Something clicks in Jaskier’s mind. He snags his little notebook with the new song in it, scrawls something down, adds chords above the words at the appropriate intervals. 

He looks at Geralt and back at the words, something clenching in his chest. Then he plays it out, just to see how it sounds. 

“Some get hard and some go home   
Some want flesh and some want bone   
I just want to see you in the morning   
Yes, I just want to see you in the morning...”

Ah, yes. Very forlorn.  _ Not _ appropriate for a wedding. Damn it. But, very promising for other endeavors. He closes the little leather bound book that he keeps on him, some symbol on the front that Ciri had claimed was for good luck and protection against plagiarizers. Jaskier had accepted the gift graciously. 

“Mmm,” Geralt mutters, rolling even further. He rolls right into Jaskier’s thigh, his face right by Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier wants to say he remains unaffected, but then he’d be a liar and he’s been accused of that quite enough, thank you. When Geralt rolls enough that his forehead presses to Jaskier’s hip bone, that’s when Jaskier picks up a pillow and screams into it. The release is nice. 

“The gods test me and detest me,” he mutters. Then, “Hey, actually that might work in a son- Geralt!” Geralt has thrown an arm over Jaskier’s knees. He’s heavy. Jaskier chews his lower lips for a moment and considers how  _ bad, _ per se, it would be if he did what he wants to do. Not too bad, he concludes. It’s not like he’s trying to take advantage of the man. So he pushes off Geralt’s arm, gently lifts Geralt’s head, and lays it in his lap on a pillow. Geralt seems to settle. Jaskier wonders if Geralt knows he seeks warm, living bodies out in his sleep, that he is so touch-starved in his waking hours that he reaches out blindly when abed. It’s a bit sad, really. And all of Geralt’s touchiness, now that they are pretending to be a couple, makes sense. With an excuse to touch, Geralt takes the chance to sate that need. Jaskier is just flattered that Geralt trusts him enough for it. 

“Your song…” Geralt mumbles against the pillow. Jaskier can still feel the words vibrate through it and against his thighs. He freezes, afraid Geralt will wake up and see their position. 

“... yes?” Jaskier says, not sure what song Geralt is talking about. 

“My song,” Geralt corrects. Ah, so Geralt’s supposed  _ favorite _ again. “I remember. A line.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asks. He just needs Geralt to fall back into a deep sleep, none of this surfacing consciousness bullshit. So he doesn’t lose his hands and his lap to Geralt’s sword and rage. Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, soft from the water and ice salts. 

“... _ but you are far too beautiful to love me _ … _ ”  _ Geralt mutters, before snuffling against the pillow. Jaskier freezes. He knows  _ exactly _ which song that is. Geralt doesn’t ask if he does, doesn’t say anything else, just rubs the scarred side of his face against the pillow and goes back to softly snoring. 

That song, that  _ stupid song _ . Jaskier, if ever asked, would claim to hate that song with all his being. It’s the worst song. The absolute worst. The only song around the same personal level is  _ Her Sweet Kiss _ but where that song has acknowledged loss, Jaskier had written  _ this _ song when he was still naive and hopeful about his developing feelings.  _ Stupid _ . And he had no idea that Geralt even knew it existed. 

It’s Jaskier’s turn to whisper,  _ “Fuck,” _ with a lot of feeling. 


	5. It’s Naught That Rum Won’t Solve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Granny makes her appearance. Ciri gets into a spot of trouble. Jaskier takes Lorenia out on what is basically her hen night/bachelorette party. Alcohol does things to people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahooooooo music time. No this is not a song fic, I promise you, but it is a fic with song. 
> 
> Songs sung: _Falling Slowly_ by The Frames; _Wild Blue Yonder_ by The Amazing Devil; _Pruning Shears_ by The Amazing Devil; _Love Run_ by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> I don't know if anyone would survive the amount of alcohol I make Jaskier drink, but ya know what? We call that creative license folks.

Jaskier wakes up the next morning. Alone. 

He lays in place for a moment, eyes closed against the obnoxious ray of sun sneaking in between the curtains, but also some odd, crushing disappointment he can’t place. He rolls over onto the side Geralt had been sleeping on, just to check, but no - the spot is cool. Geralt has been gone a while. 

Jaskier gets up, washes up, changes into the most casual outfit he has - still a bit elaborate, but that’s just who he is - and heads downstairs. He finds the women and children eating breakfast in the dining room. And -

“Granny!” Jaskier exclaims, rushing in. The old woman sits where the head of household would - that is, his father’s seat, though everyone knows Jaskier’s mother really rules them. If his father is the head of household, his mother is the neck that turns it. 

“Julian,” his grandmother says, voice soft and creaky. She’s always been hunched over, for as long as Jaskier can remember. Her hands are bony and shake. With her skin as soft as leather and just as creased, thick blue veins trace patterns across it like rivers on a map. She takes his face in her hands, kisses his cheeks, and then lets him sit by Ciri, where she is on the left hand side a little down the table near the other children. She’s dressed in trousers and a smock, worn boots on her feet. Zefiryna is kitted the same. Surprising enough - Marcek is too. 

“Joining your sister?” Julian teases. Marcek shrugs and his eyes flit to Ciri, unaware or uncaring of his gaze and the red that stains his cheeks. “Oh, good luck with that,” Jaskier says. Ciri doesn’t have time for Marcek’s attentions or affections, that much Jaskier knows. 

“We’re climbing trees again,” Ciri says. She grins up at him and he taps his lips. She goes for her napkin and wipes the yolk dripping down the side of her mouth. 

“Remember what your father said yesterday,” Jaskier reminds, filling his plate. “No high branches.”

“We know,” Zefiryna says. She sticks her tongue out at Jaskier and he does the same back to her. 

“Children,” his mother admonishes with a laugh. Beside her, his grandmother chuckles. 

“Speaking of your father, has anyone seen Geralt? And where is everyone else?” Jaskier asks. His mother feeds Dagobert, his grandmother is helping Kacper, but besides Marcek, Zefiryna, and Ciri no one else is at the table. 

“He offered to help Dietrich nab the rabbits for tonight’s stew,” his mother informs him, then snorts. “More like Dietrich demanded Geralt tag along. Probably going to poke him with questions once they’re alone - you know Dietrich only joins the hunters for sport. No worries, Tanek went along with them. He’ll keep his father in line.”

“You did the same!” Jaskier exclaims, making all the children giggle into their eggs. “Granny, did you get a chance to meet Geralt?”

“No, but I want a full report after breakfast,” she states. 

“Right you are,” Jaskier agrees. “And the ladies?” None of them are present. 

“Well, Waleska and Hedwig are at the tailor’s picking up everyone’s dresses. Oh - darling, do you have wedding clothes or do we need to track something down for you quick-like?” his mother asks. 

“Oh, oh!” Ciri cuts in. “Lady Yennefer and I picked out our wedding clothes.” Her eyes have that mischievous gleam in them that Yennefer’s get. Jaskier  _ does not _ like that Ciri has picked that up from her. “Papa’s clothes are the color of his eyes.”

“Lovely!” his mother coos. She slides her eyes to Jaskier, bright and sharp. “Lady Yennefer has such good taste. As of now, she’s with Lorenia, also in town. They tagged along with your sisters, thick as thieves, already, discussing the blessing for the wedding.”

“I saw that coming,” Jaskier says, pointing his spoon at his mother. He looks to the children. “I should have told one of you little buggers so I would be believed later on, but I just  _ knew _ your soon-to-be Auntie Lorrie would be best friends with Lady Yennefer.”

“Why did you think so?” Marcek asks, blowing a lock of brown hair out of his green eyes. 

“Because,” Jaskier says, “both those women are  _ devious _ .” They all laugh, though Dagobert doesn’t know what he’s laughing at and Kacper has to whisper to Granny and ask what  _ devious  _ means. 

Breakfast is soon finished, and the three eldest run outside to climb trees while the children go off with Jaskier’s mother to putter about with some more decorations. Jaskier walks Granny to the suite they had built onto the estate’s first floor to accommodate her visits. She has a parlor of her own, a bathroom with a permanent tub with a seat in it, and a bedroom with a bed low enough for her to climb into without much trouble. He settles them in the parlor and goes back to the kitchens for tea. He knows he could order one of the servants, but he likes doing this for his Granny when she’s over. Once settled with their refreshment, she stares at him over a cup of tea, quite like his mother. Maybe the old woman had taught her daughter-in-law a thing or two. Heavens knew they loved each other to death. 

“So. Geralt,” his grandmother says. “Your husband.”

“The honorable witcher, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says. He wonders if he forced his tone into calmness. It’s been getting harder and harder, like an awful game where the enemies’ difficulty in battle goes up. His mother had been hard, his sisters harder, Lorenia even more difficult, and his grandmother is at the top. He figures if he just talks about loving Geralt, which is the sad truth, he’ll be fine. 

“The girl is not yours,” she says. 

“Not by blood,” Jaskier admits, though a bit miffed. “She is  _ ours _ , though.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Julian,” she admonishes. He sips his tea sulkily. “I am surprised you settled so soon. I thought it would take you far into middle age.” 

Jaskier can’t blame her. His grandmother had been his cover in his younger years. If he had snuck over to a noble’s house to spend a steamy night or had been locked in a cupboard or broom closet with a younger member of the gentry doing the same, he had always said he’d been with his grandmother. In return, he’d recount his exploits - appropriately, of course, no sordid details for Granny, just the funny, daring bits - and compose music for her. At Oxenfurt, he’d stayed with her for many of the breaks for holidays as her cottage was closer than the estate. 

It’s a fair assumption. 

All he says is, “Geralt is different.” That’s true too. She stares him down. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “What?”

“You’re keeping secrets,” she says, taking a dainty sip that still manages to sound like a slurp. 

“I am,” Jaskier admits. Because he is. “But that’s neither here nor there.” He slurps his own tea and slouches in the armchair he’s in. Damn grandmothers. They always just  _ knew _ things. He wonders if she guesses and gets lucky, or if she’s been doing this long enough that she just knows the signs. 

“Interesting,” she murmurs. “Very well. Show me some of your new music. I shall wait for you to get your lute.” At that, he gets up and goes, because he’s never been able to deny her that. Upon his return, he runs into Yennefer going up the stairs. She is alone. 

“Where’s the rest of them?” he asks, curious. 

“Lorenia, Hedwig, and Waleska are all in town for lunch,” she says without turning to face him, and continues up the stairs. “I, on the other hand, have a date with a housemaid.” With that, she disappears down a hall. Jaskier… doesn’t want to know, honestly. 

He makes it back to his grandmother and plays her the song he had played his first night at the estate. He branches off into a jig, then a soft ballad. He demonstrates  _ Toss A Coin To Your Witcher _ , which gets her laughing. 

“And he still lets you around after composing that?” she laughs, wiping her eyes. 

“Absolutely,” Jaskier says, taking a seat and tuning his lute. He drops it down a key and starts a different song. “I wrote this one on the way here,” he says. He clears his throat. 

“Let’s hear it then,” Granny says, pouring herself another cup of tea. “But first, the background. What’s it about?”

“My husband,” Jaskier says, honestly. “Many of my songs these days seem to end up about him.” He shakes his head. It’s frustrating for an artist to have such a strong-headed muse. Thoughts of Geralt frequently bully him into writing, or else they won’t leave him be. 

“What aspect of him? And is this a love song?” 

“To an extent, yes. It’s about how we know each other and how we don’t know each other. An exploration. And a call to each other, I think,” he says. He appreciates that his grandmother  _ also _ went to Oxenfurt’s college. It makes it a treat to engage with her in these sorts of conversations that require a higher level of critical thinking and  _ knowing _ what the right questions to ask are. 

“A call? What kind of call?” she wonders. “Hmmm. Don’t tell me, just sing. I want to guess. Maybe you don’t even know,” she says with a wink. But Jaskier knows what the call is. She waves at him and he starts to pluck at the strings, a bit apprehensive. He always wants to perform well for his grandmother. She’s always been his first audience, if he could help it. He used to write little love songs for his sweethearts and she’d sit and listen, tell him where to expand and embellish, where to cut back. Now, it just feels like he’s baring his heart to her. Which is fine, it’s just - she’s the wrong person to be telling all this to. 

“Falling slowly, eyes that know me   
And I can't go back.   
And moods that take me and erase me   
And I'll paint it black.”

“Ah, yes, yes, I see some of it. Yes,” she murmurs, blowing the steam from her tea. “Such difficult love. Love in the face of disaster and tragedy. Continue, continue.”

“Well you have suffered enough   
And warred with yourself   
It's time that you won.”

“And what is he winning, grandson?” she smiles. “Is he winning you, perhaps?”

“Some peace of mind,” Jaskier mutters. Then continues with the chorus, 

“Take this sinking boat   
And point it home   
We've still got ti-”

It’s then that Zefiryna bursts in, screaming Jaskier’s name. Jaskier almost breaks a string he fumbles so hard. His niece skids to a halt before him, tugging at his hands, begging for him to come to the main parlor, and quickly. Jaskier is on his feet in a moment, looking back to his grandmother’s stricken face. She waves him ahead, going at her own pace behind them as they run down the halls. 

When he gets to the parlor, Ciri is sitting stock-still in a chair, pale as a sheet, sweating. Marcek is kneeling in front of her, apologizing over and over, so as to become grating on the ears. Jaskier moves him aside and bites his tongue to keep from gasping. He wants to scream too. 

Citi’s arm is the wrong way round. 

“What. Happened,” he says, kneeling. 

“I-I climbed too high,” Ciri admits, voice strained and low. “I can’t move it. I can’t-” She gasps and her eyes fill with tears. 

“Okay, okay, alright,” he rambles. “Alright.”

“I bet her she couldn’t!” Marcek wails beside him. Jaskier looks over. The boy looks like he’s about to burst out into tears as well. “I teased her relentlessly, Uncle. I did. I did until she finally gave in to get me to stop, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Ciri.” 

“Good grief, Marcek,” Jaskier huffs. “Zefka, Lady Yennefer has returned. Please  _ knock first _ and request she come down. Quickly now, children.” Zefiryna keeps her wits about her and runs off. Jaskier turns to Marcek. “Go help Granny get in here, she came behind us, go on.” Marcek wipes his face with the back of his hand and nods, running too. Once alone, Jaskier lets his eyes go wide and his hands shake. “Cirilla.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” she whispers. “You and Geralt always tell me to think for myself, not to listen to drivel, but he just kept  _ going _ .”

“So you went up,” he says, pushing her hair out of her face. “Boys are tiresome.”

“Yes,” she says. “I don’t think I care for them much.” She chokes back a sob, tries to move her arm and lets out a yelp. 

“Don’t!” Jaskier yelps with her. He looks away. “Oh, gods, don’t move it, Ciri.” He’d seen the bone shifting, twisting,  _ pushing _ against the skin as it tried to bend. He sees spots. Damn his weakness. 

_ “What _ is going on?” At Yennefer’s bellow, Jaskier blanches and turns to see her gliding into the room, with Zefiryna trailing behind her. She’s dressed only in a silk robe the color of the setting sun, hanging off her shoulders, barely covering her chest. Her hair is a mess and sweat glistens in a sheen on her skin. Her eyes fall to Ciri and widen. “What happened?” she asks.

“She fell from a tree,” Jaskier says, moving aside for Yennefer to kneel in front of Ciri. “Yennefer, were you and the housemaid  _ really- _ ” 

“What I do in my spare time doesn’t concern you, bard,” she snaps, taking Ciri’s arm into her hands. Ciri cries out. “Hush, little swallow, let me work.” She closes her eyes, muttering under her breath, just as Marcek and Granny come into the parlor. 

“Now who’s this?” Granny whispers to Marcek. 

“That’s the sorceress, Lady Yennefer,” Marcek whispers back, voice full of guilt and eyes unable to look at the proceedings. 

“Ah.”

“Cirilla, listen to me,” Yennefer says. Ciri looks her in the eyes. “This is going to hurt. But it will fix your arm.”

“Okay,” Ciri says, tears in her eyes, making her voice thick. With her good arm, she reaches out to Jaskier. He takes her little hand, nervous himself, and gives her a reassuring smile as he squeezes. 

“On three,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier  _ knows _ she’s not going to count to three to do this. Ciri nods though. “One,” Yennefer says. “Two,” she continues, then says the rest of the spell. There’s a procession of sick pops and twists, and it must hurt enough that Ciri can’t catch her breath to scream because she just gasps and struggles for air. Jaskier thinks she’s going to pass out, but she just pitches into him and pants against his neck. 

“Ciri?” he asks, with her in his arms. “Ciri?”

“I’m - okay,” she pants. He lets out a sigh and hugs her, sitting in the armchair with her in his lap. “I’m - too big,” she protests, still unable to get in a proper breath. 

“You’ll never be too big for me to hold,” Jaskier says, holding her close. His eyes flick to Yennefer, covered in more sweat than before, but looking satisfied and relieved as well. “All set?”

“All set,” she agrees. “Listen to your father next time,” Yennefer admonishes. “But still, come get me, if you don’t.” She leans down to kiss the girl’s head, nods to Jaskier, glares at Marcek, gives Granny a small bow, and waves in thanks to Zefiryna before disappearing back upstairs to her unfinished business, Jaskier assumes. 

Jaskier just wants to sit with Ciri for a bit, Granny taking a seat in one of the other chairs. Marcek has made himself scarce and Zefiryna claims to want to find him, so she runs off in search. Not a moment later, the front door to the estate opens, the clack of boots hitting the marble as what sounds like a hunting party comes back in. Jaskier hears Dietrich ask Geralt to take their braces of rabbit into the kitchens, then his voice trails off. Jaskier assumes he’s gone off with Tanek and Jaskier’s father to clean up and get ready for the midday meal. 

Geralt stops in the parlor at the sight of them on the way to the kitchen. His eyes flick from Granny’s unfamiliar face, to the familiar sight of Jaskier and Ciri, though now he’s frowning at their shaken looks. 

“What happened?” he asks, voice low and slow. He ignores Granny’s searching eyes as he steps into the room, closer to Jaskier’s chair. Jaskier’s never seen Geralt angry at Ciri before. He hopes he doesn’t see it now. Ciri slides off his lap and walks over to Geralt, eyes on the ground. Geralt tips her head up, the side of a finger under her chin so she has to look him in the eyes. He hikes the braces of rabbits higher on his shoulder with his other hand, all tied up together by their feet wrapped in twine. “What happened?” he repeats, voice softer. Jaskier’s stomach clenches with nerves. 

“I broke my arm,” Ciri says, eyes trained on his. Her lips don’t even quiver. Jaskier is incredibly proud and impressed. The contrast between them is stark, with Ciri so small and tearstained, while Geralt towers above her and is smudged with dirt and dust. But Ciri doesn’t back down. 

“How,” says Geralt. Not even a question. 

Ciri’s eye twitches as she says, “I climbed the top branches of the tree. Like you told me not to.”

“Why.” 

“Zefiryna’s brother, Marcek, said I couldn’t do it,” Ciri admits. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. “Yennefer fixed my arm.” 

“Sounds painful,” Geralt concedes. He drops his hand, hikes the braces of rabbits up higher against his shoulder. Ciri shrugs and looks away. 

“It was awful,” Jaskier pipes up from the side. Geralt’s eyes meet his and they seem to… ease? That can’t be the right word. Jaskier doesn’t have words for what those golden eyes are doing right now. 

“Are you going to punish me, then?” Ciri asks, looking up and biting the inside of her cheek, probably in a bid not to throw a fit or cry again, though for a very different reason. Jaskier knows she hates disappointing them. 

Geralt looks at her face and sighs, long and hard. Then he drops to a knee and chucks her on the chin, a small, grimacing sort of smile coming to his face. Ciri’s shoulders relax. 

“No,” Geralt says, voice soft. “No, I think a broken arm and a healing session from Lady Yennefer are punishment enough, don’t you think?” Geralt asks. “But no more trees for now.” Ciri swallows hard and nods her head vigorously. Then she throws her arms around Geralt’s neck and hugs him, still silent. He seems only a bit surprised, but wraps her up in his arms and holds her for a moment. When he lets go, he springs back up to his feet. “Go on, then. Do something a bit less strenuous for the afternoon.”

“And wash up for lunch!” Jaskier calls after her as she runs off, no doubt to look for Zefiryna and, by default, Marcek - to give him a good punch. Nothing she would call strenuous. Jaskier sighs and watches Geralt watch as she goes. “Good hunt?” He is unprepared for the complete attention of Geralt’s eyes. Jaskier could write odes to those eyes, and he  _ hates _ odes. 

“Good enough,” Geralt responds, walking closer until he’s right by Jaskier’s chair. He drops down again, so they’re face to face. Jaskier swallows. 

“You look better than yesterday,” he says weakly. What a lame line. What, has Jaskier lost all his suaveness? “Loving the rugged look. It works for you.” There, much better. Geralt snorts and that’s enough for Jaskier. 

“I feel better,” Geralt responds. He leans forward and Jaskier swallows his tongue. But Geralt only places a kiss on Jaskier’s forehead, and Granny is there, so it makes  _ sense _ , really. “Thank you,” a  _ lot _ softer now. 

Granny saves him, clearing her throat. 

“Ah, yes! My grandmother, Geralt. Granny, this is Geralt. Geralt. That’s Granny,” Jaskier says, gesturing to his grandmother. Geralt hauls himself to his feet, and turns to the old woman. 

“What a pleasure,” Granny says. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a witcher.” Something sparkles in her eyes, but she is unafraid. She takes him in again, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Geralt bows his head, walks over, and drops down again. He kisses Granny’s hand, like she’s a young maid, and it tickles the old woman pink. “Absolute pleasure, sir witcher.”

“As it is mine,” Geralt responds, gruff. He stands and waves the rabbits. “I’ll get these to the kitchen then.”

“You clean up before lunch too, Geralt,” Jaskier calls after him. Geralt makes a very rude gesture behind him without looking back. Thank goodness Granny isn’t facing that way, or she might be less pleased to meet Geralt. Then again, it might endear him to her even more and that’s the last thing Jaskier needs right now. 

“My, my,” Granny says to Jaskier. “You didn’t tell me he was so… tall.”

“Really, grandmother?” Jaskier says with a roll of his eyes. He knew he got his odd side from her.

“Interesting eyes. Must be the mutations,” she ponders. “Good soul.” Jaskier frowns at that. “That man had substantial power over all three people in this room with him,” she says. “And  _ yet _ , he dropped down to his knees for each and every one of us to confer that we were equals with him.” She taps the side of her nose. “Good soul.”

Jaskier knows this. But not many people do. He’s glad at least his grandmother is onboard. 

“To be honest,” he tells her, “I’m not sure mother and father would have let a witcher anywhere near the estate if they weren’t attached to one of their kin.” It’s a harsh truth. The children don’t seem to know to be afraid of him, but he’s sure that the other adults would be just as harsh as the rest of the world. He wonders what Dietrich got up to with Geralt today. He only hopes Tanek was able to curb some of it.

“Don’t judge Lettenhove too harshly,” Granny chastises him. “Especially when we can see how much that witcher loves you.”

_ That _ makes Jaskier burst out laughing against his will. Geralt barely smiled and when he did, his scar was twisted up so that people didn’t want to look at it while it happened. That his grandmother can ‘see’ anything on Geralt’s face, never mind ‘love’, is a stretch. 

“Apologies,” he says, since he can’t outright contest her, because then he would expose them all. “I just thought of something funny.”  _ And tragic _ , his mind supplies. So many good ballads about heartbreak and pining are to come. 

Granny hmphs and nods to him. “Are you going to finish that song you were playing for me earlier?” Jaskier isn’t really in the mood, but he retrieves his lute from Granny’s suite and finishes the song for her. He wants to ask Geralt how the morning hunt was and if Dietrich bothered him, wants to tell him about Yennefer and the housemaid, wants to ask what Geralt had really been thinking about Ciri’s broken arm. But soon, the lunch bell is ringing and they go off to eat, and after that, his sisters and Lorenia come home and sweep him up in assisting with wedding preparations. 

“You know what tonight is, don’t you?” Hedwig says, adjusting some ribbon or other on her veil. Jaskier frowns at her, then squawks when Lorenia kicks him. 

“Hey! I have very sensitive skin, I’ll have you know,” he mutters, staring at the flower arrangement in front of him. They’re using faux flowers made of delicate fabrics right now, so that when the fresh ones come in on the morning of the wedding, the servants have a template to go by when arranging them. Jaskier hates this arrangement. He tips all the flowers out of the vase and goes to start over when Waleska’s hand shoots out from the side to wrap those delicate fingers around his wrist. “What?”

“You’ve forgotten,” Waleska says, like she’s tsk-ing him. But there’s a small smile on her face. 

“Forgotten…?”

“My wedding celebration!” Lorenia shouts, rolling her eyes in exasperation. She stands, one hand braced on her hip, the other pointing at Jaskier accusingly. “Two nights before the wedding! The wedding couple enjoys their final night of unwedded reverie!” 

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier gasps, dropping his flowers. “I forgot.”

“For one who loves a party, it’s surprising,” Waleska teases, taking her hand back. “Something else on your mind?”

“Some _ one _ else,” Hedwig coos, joining in on the teasing. “That husband of yours  _ must  _ keep you entertained.” She pauses. “He’s so… big. I feel like he’d be demanding in bed.”

“Hedwig!” Jaskier groans, dropping his head in his hands. “Please. Don’t.” Now he’s thinking of Geralt in bed, spread out before him. Gorgeous. Fuck. Would he be demanding? Would he whine for Jaskier to get on with it? “I’m in charge of Lorrie, is that it?” Jaskier says, getting back on the subject, if only to save himself from his sisters and Lorenia. 

“That’s the plan!” Lorenia says, seeming to take pity on him. “Show me a good time, Julian.”

“Lady Yennefer has agreed to help me with Hedwig,” Waleska says. “I admit, it’s been a while since I threw a bash for this express reason. She had all kinds of delightful ideas, especially for one who wants to stay indoors for theirs.” At this she rolls her eyes. 

“If you had to wheel yourself about all the time, you’d want to stay in too,” Hedwig shoots back. 

“Lady Yennefer said she could spell your chair for a bit to move on it’s own,” Waleska points out. “So you don’t have to keep pushing it about yourself.” She looks at her flower arrangement and frowns much like Jaskier before tipping her flowers out. “This is harder than it looks.”

“Isn’t it?” Jaskier sighs. “And hey, if you get Yennefer, then I’m asking Geralt!” There. That should be fair. Two people to a bride. Not that he thinks Geralt will be much fun,  _ but _ Jaskier knows from experience that he and Lorenia are a handful when drunk together and he is  _ definitely  _ getting them drunk for her bash. Besides, that’ll nip their need for an escort right in the bud; Geralt is perfectly capable of protecting them both. 

“Geralt is a good idea,” Hedwig says, nodding. “No one will mess with you and Lorrie when you inevitably do something stupid. Not with his grim face around.” She claps both hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry, Julek. I like him, I do. He cares for you and he’s kind. I swear!”

“I know,” Jaskier says, patting her hand. “And stay in if you want; it’s your party night.” He sticks his tongue out at both Waleska and Lorenia. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I’m very happy,” Hedwig says, her smile small and discrete, just for Jaskier, even as her eyes flick over to her future wife, rearranging flowers with Waleska, both women tuting over the order of them. Jaskier forgets sometimes that they were friends first, but then he catches them in this easy camaraderie that comes with years of knowing each other and he remembers. It’s good. “And I’ll be even happier when you bring me my fiancée tomorrow morning, in one piece,” Hedwig says, getting Jaskier’s attention back. 

“Of course I will. Or rather, Geralt will,” Jaskier says. “Which reminds me. I hadn’t been planning on that, so I’ll have to tell him. And ask mother to mind Ciri for a bit.” 

“Oh, Granny is going to spend some time with Zefka,” Waleska says. “Ciri is welcome to join them, if she’d like.” 

“I’m sure she would. I’ll ask.” It’s a good enough excuse to get him out of this flower arrangement business, anyhow. Jaskier says his goodbyes, tells Lorenia they’ll be back to grab her for their celebration night at nine o’clock sharp, and dashes off to look for Geralt. 

It takes him a while, but Jaskier finds him in the stables with Roach and Thistle, giving them oats and making sure they’ve been rubbed down after their romp hunting that afternoon. Jaskier watches for a bit, admiring from afar as Geralt murmurs to both horses, adjusting their feed bags and scritching them behind the ear as he goes. 

“You’re very kind, watching out for Thistle as well,” Jaskier says, announcing his presence, finally. Geralt looks up, eyes wide. “What, you didn’t smell me coming? Hear me?”

“We smell similar with the soap we’ve been using,” Geralt admits, eyes shifting away. “And I’m not threatened here so I try not to invade anyone’s privacy by snooping with my enhanced senses.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, faltering. He should explain about the shared scents at some point, but maybe not right now. He has more important things to discuss. “So.”

“So?” Geralt echoes back. He rolls his eyes and huffs. “What have you gotten us into now?”

“Well, see, that’s just. Unfair, really,” Jaskier says, folding his arms across his chest. “But fine. If you insist on being negative already.” He clears his throat. “It is my  _ privilege _ to take Lorenia out on her final night as a single woman. And I volunteered for you to come along because Yennefer already offered to help with Hedwig’s bash.”

Geralt frowns. “I thought that was supposed to be done the day before the wedding, not the second day before.”

“Lettenhove reserves the night  _ before  _ the wedding as time spent only for the couple together since they’ll be separated the whole day of the wedding until the nuptials are performed. It’s like, their last day as two separate people who are together, before they get to be one whole unit that  _ happens _ to be made up of two.” Jaskier squints, unfurls his arms to scratch his head. “Does that - does that make sense? I -”

“It made sense,” Geralt says, holding a hand to stop him from continuing. “At least it did to me. Either that or I’ve been around you for far too long.” But Geralt’s head is tilted and Jaskier swears the grin he’s wearing is fond. “What’s the plan then? Whorehouse?”

“Oh gods, no, Geralt!” Jaskier grimaces. “No. There’s a lively tavern in the heart of town. We’ll go there, drink up, sing and dance a jig or two, then come back here and reminisce.”

“And I take it  _ I _ will be how you two get back in one piece?” Geralt’s voice is layered with sarcasm. 

“Yes!” Jaskier responds with a grin. “Pretty please.” Geralt snorts. “Geralt.”

“I didn’t say no. What kind of  _ husband  _ would I be if I denied you this?” Geralt’s eyes flick up at Jasker as he drags out the word husband, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He clears it and looks away. Stupid golden eyes. They make Jaskier think of Geralt a few hours ago, so close, kissing Jaskier’s head.  _ In front of Granny _ , his mind supplies. That’s why. But the other times? Jaskier is trying to find reasons for the other times, when there was no one around and Geralt insisted on keeping up the charade. And what a charade it is becoming. 

“We’re meeting her up at nine tonight,” Jaskier says. “Wear your witcheriest outfit. Come ready to bash some heads together!”

“Would that be yours and hers, or others’ heads?” Geralt asks, that grin still in place. 

“Don’t tease; it doesn’t look good on you,” Jaskier lies, turning on his heel. 

Teasing looks  _ amazing _ on Geralt. 

* * *

Jaskier considers but ultimately discards the most revealing doublet he has because he’s supposed to be _married_. But he _does_ throw on that sky blue tunic with the ties undone, under a cerulean doublet that stops clasping at midchest. He musses his hair, then takes a moment to look at the ring on his finger. He wouldn’t take it off for the world, though he does wonder if it ruins the party image he had just spent the last hour or two crafting. He doesn’t care if it does. 

“All set?” 

Jaskier turns to see Geralt standing in the doorway. At the sight of Jaskier, there’s a twitch across Geralt’s whole face that has Jaskier frowning. 

“Are you alright, Geralt?” Jaskier walks forward. “Does something hurt?” He looks closer at Geralt’s face, at his scar looking an angry red. “Your scar?”

“I’m fine. It’s not that,” Geralt insists, catching the hand Jaskier has raised to touch the scar. His fingers are warm. 

“Then what is it?” Geralt is silent. Jaskier scoffs. “I  _ knew  _ the scar would bother you after that fire plant. One moment.” Jaskier takes back his hand, wondering if Geralt really  _ did _ linger with his touch, and goes over to their bedside table. He takes out a salve he used to use on his summer bugbites that he’s sure will help Geralt’s itch, and goes back to Geralt, undoing the cap on the little tin in his hands. Scooping some salve with his fingers, he approaches, eyebrow raised in question. Geralt’s forehead creases, but he nods. It gets right under Jaskier’s skin how trusting Geralt is with him at times. 

“What is that?” Geralt asks, even as Jaskier’s cool fingers dab the ointment down the length of the scar, careful of Geralt’s eye. 

“Cooling ointment,” Jaskier responds. “I notice when you get warm, have been doing anything that makes your body temperature go up, or makes you sweat, your scars get irritated and itchy.” He finishes dabing the ointment and wipes his hand on his pants. They’re dark enough the smudge won’t be seen. “There. Carry this with you, you know how you get.” Jaskier tucks the tin into one of the pouches on Geralt’s belt. 

When he looks up, Geralt’s eyes are boring into him, the pupils widened for the semi-darkness of the room, only really lit by the fire one of the servants had started in the pit a few hours ago. Jaskier can barely swallow - Geralt always looks so gorgeous by firelight. 

“We should get going,” Geralt says, a hand coming up to hover by his face where Jaskier had coated it with salve. “So we aren’t late.”

“Right. Yes. Lorrie’s a stickler.” Jaskier closes the door to their sleeping chambers behind him and unconsciously takes Geralt’s hand in his to lead him downstairs. He’s only just noticed what he’s done as they descend the staircase, but also that Geralt has  _ let him _ and hasn’t said anything about it. Jaskier decides to be selfish again and stays holding Geralt’s hand. 

Lorenia is waiting for them in the entrance hall of the manor. She’s as dolled up as Jaskier, face carefully painted and a headband keeping her curling hair from her face. She’s wearing a dark red dress with a plunging neckline and short sleeves, and has a purse of coins tied to her belt. She looks delighted to see them. 

“Off we go?” Lorenia says, reaching out to Jaskier to hook their arms together. 

“Off we go,” Jaskier agrees. He squeezes Geralt’s hand and lets it go, waltzing out of the manor with Lorenia on his arm. The cart is out front with one of the manor’s horses, and they take that out and into town. The tavern in question that Jaskier had been speaking of is packed with people when they get there. Geralt gets them a table in the back and Lorenia gets them a bottle of vodka and a clutch of cups. Jaskier helps Lorenia carry their drinks to Geralt, leaving the night’s festivities up to Lorenia. Tonight is for her, after all, so he’ll take her lead. 

It starts with Lorenia insisting they do shots of the vodka, which smells like disinfectant a healer would use. Jaskier knows she’s a bit competitive when it comes to things in life - she’d once bet him his monthly allowance that he couldn’t eat as many pork ribs as she could and she had  _ won _ after consuming 20 of them in under 15 minutes. Maybe Jaskier had just been wallowing in willful ignorance to think she wouldn’t do something like that now, on her special day. 

“I want a contest, Julian,” she says, eyes gleaming as she sets up five ceramic shot glasses in front of each of them. “A contest!” she crows and it draws attention to them. Geralt has his arms folded across his chest, sitting near Jaskier in the booth. “To the one who can drink the most!” 

“Oh, really, Lorenia,” Jaskier starts, even as she fills the ceramic cups with the clear liquid. It makes his eyes water. Geralt shakes gently beside him and when Jaskier looks, he realizes Geralt is  _ laughing _ . “Oi, you!”

“It’s my night!” Lorenia says, cutting him off, even as a crowd of at least ten gather round. “It’s two days to my wedding,” she informs the crowd - some drunk merchants, a few tipsy seamstresses, more than a handful of buzzed laborers of various genders. The crowd cheers. “My future-wife has sent me off with her brother for a good time. And  _ I _ demand a contest!”

“It’s her night!” the crowd cheers with her. Lorenia grins, wicked and wide. Jaskier looks to Geralt, who shrugs. 

“When have you ever said no?” Geralt asks. And he has a point. 

“Fine!” Jaskier says. “On your count!”

So they go. Lorenia counts to three and they start throwing back the liquor. She gets to the end of her five first, but Jaskier is right on her tail and demands a rematch. By now, the barkeep has heard it’s Lorenia’s night, so he comes over with a bottle of the stuff as a gift. He fills their cups and they’re off again, this time  _ Jaskier  _ coming in as the victor. Lorenia calls another rematch, which she wins, and by then, the vodka is hitting Jaskier’s blood. The crowd gathered has cheered her on and continues to do so as Jaskier sulks. Geralt artfully hides his smile behind a mug of ale someone has been kind enough to bring him. 

“Oh,  _ Jaskier _ ,” Lorenia teases, “don’t be so delicate like the flower you’ve named yourself after.”

“Excuse you,” Jaskier mutters under his breath. Dandelions and buttercups - yellow flowers  _ in general _ \- are hardy things. 

“Sing us something!” Lorenia yells. Jaskier tries not to wince. Oh, he should have seen this coming too. “I’ll get us some of that wine from Toussaint and  _ you _ can get the crowd roaring. Something with a kick, Julian. Something with a pep, that we can reel too!” She runs back up to the bar as the crowd cheers her and Jaskier on. He goes to protest, but Jaskier can feel all the booze rushing straight to his head. Perfect. 

“I don’t even have a lute!” Jaskier yells to her. 

“Someone find the man a lute!” Lorenia crows from the bar as she accepts three large mugs of  _ something _ . He hopes it’s the wine. That wine has always been the best. Maybe a Beauclair white, instead? He’ll have to wait and see. 

The barkeep comes over with Lorenia, an old lute in his hands. It’s scuffed and some of the strings look rusty, but Jaskier tunes it up as best he can. Someone in the crowd has a tambourine and someone else has a flute - marvelous, that. He hopes they can keep up. At the sudden loss of feeling in his cheeks, Jaskier hopes  _ he _ can keep up with himself. 

“Lorrie, do you remember that one song?” he says to her, taking the tankard of wine from her. If he’s going to sing, he’s going to make her sing with him. It’s her night, after all, and he’ll use that against her if he must. Jaskier takes a peek at Geralt, then, because he’s getting drunk and is a masochist, and the man is sitting there in their little booth, right beside him, though the bar is overcrowded now with onlookers. Geralt is watching him, Jaskier knows it, even from behind the tankard. Might as well give him something to watch.

“Which song?” Lorenia asks, throwing back her own mug, the remains of the vodka bottle gripped in her other hand. 

“The one with the sky. The wild blue yonder,” Jaskier says. 

“Oh!” Lorenia says, snapping. “The one with the ghosts and monsters!”

“Yes!” Once upon a time, Lorenia would oblige him and sing with him. He knows Hedwig loves it. 

“Yes, fine,” Lorenia says, already flushed and laughing. Geralt just raises his tankard halfway up and then continues to watch and drink. Well, fine, Jaskier thinks. Watch him make people want him with his singing and then make Geralt  _ jealous _ . Maybe it’ll be fake jealous since they’re only fake married, but still. 

Jaskier takes out his lute and starts to strum, the room going quiet. He looks at Lorenia and nods when he wants her to start. The duet is in tandem. It had taken them weeks to get it right the first time around and the result is that the tune never really left their heads. 

By the time they get to the first chorus, Jaskier is standing on the table with Lorenia right beside him, both trying not to fall off, and they’re screaming. 

“Let’s hide under the covers!   
We don’t know what’s out there -    
Could be wolves!”

Jaskier can’t help but look at Geralt. Maybe he’s imagining it when Geralt grins, wide and feral and absolutely breathtaking.

“So hold me, lover, like you used to!   
So tight I’d bruise you,   
I’d bruise you, I’d bruise you too!”

They continue with the rest of the song, standing on tables, jumping onto the bar at one point. But it’s Lorenia’s night, and Jaskier is the son of Lettenhove, so they get away with it. All the while, Geralt sits and sips at the same mug of ale, just watching them. Jaskier is getting too drunk not to watch back. 

“Once more!” the barkeep bellows. “And another round on the house for the soon-to-be bride!” There’s a chorus of cheers that goes up, Jaskier included. His tunic is sticking to his skin with sweat, and he’s since thrown his doublet off and at Geralt, who had caught it with good humor and secreted it away for safekeeping. They do the song another time, then again, this time the whole tavern joining in. 

The crowd starts calling for different songs, so Jaskier cycles through  _ Toss A Coin _ and  _ Fishmonger’s Daughter _ , going through them enough times that the crowd eventually can sing along if they hadn’t know the words already. Lorenia sings  _ Toss A Coin _ in harmony with him before someone asks her to arm wrestle and her eyes light up at the idea. 

“Sing me a theme song as I win!” she says, hopping off the bar and sitting at the table directly in front of him. She plays the game and Jaskier sings whatever song she calls out to him, the tavern cheering and singing in equal measure. Through it all, Geralt sits in his corner, the same mug of ale in his hand, watching them. Jaskier knows this because he’s been staring back incessantly, whenever he can sneak a glance. Maybe another hour has passed by the time Lorenia staggers back to him from the table, having won enough games to suit her ego, flushed and glassy-eyed. She demands to sing with him again. Jaskier mulls it over and then his eyes light up. 

“Lorrie!” he yells, even though she’s right next to him. When did she get so close? “Do you remember  _ Pruning Shears _ ?”

“Oh god, that one with the swearing bit and laundry?” she asks, while throwing back another shot. Where the hell was she getting all this liquor? She sways on her feet and Jaskier sways with her. 

“Yes,” he responds. “Do you remember enough?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Wonderful, let’s sing it!” And they’re off again. He mutters a lot of nonsense - to be honest, the song was made a sort of fill-in-the-blanks of whatever most pretentious person you can think of at the moment. It does well. Suddenly, Valdo Marx comes to mind and Jaskier is able to sing such awful things spurred by him. It seems Lorenia has found her muse as well, because she keeps up all the way to the chorus. By the time the song winds down, the crowd is screaming with them, relishing in the curses. Jaskier can’t stop laughing and tips his head back for someone to pour something liquid and burning down his throat. He coughs so hard he thinks he might vomit, but then strong hands are pulling him off the bar and into a booth. 

“Excuse me sir!” he slurs. “But I am married!” He holds up his hand only to discover it’s the one  _ without _ his wedding band. Pity, that. 

“I know,” comes a deep voice, vibrating against Jaskier’s side, “you’re married to  _ me _ .”

He looks up and there’s Geralt, those amber eyes blazing gold in the lowlight of the bar, firelight just glinting off them. They’re squishing in the booth, people throwing coin and compliments at them. They’ve been in the tavern maybe an hour or two and Jaskier has already whipped the place up into a frenzy. A few other entertainers are trying their hand at playing for the masses, Jaskier forgotten in the bar corner. He thinks it’s not so bad, if he gets to be forgotten with Geralt. Lorenia is sitting at the bar, in the middle of some drinking contest with a large, burly man, his moustache drooping down past his chin. 

“Oh, hello,” Jaskier says to Geralt, blinking away any spots that may have been invading his field of vision. “Right. Yes. To you.” To Geralt? What was he to Geralt? Geralt had  _ just _ said....

“Aright?” Geralt asks, a laugh in his voice. He reaches out toward Jaskier’s face and brushes Jaskier’s hair behind his ear. Fuck. 

“I’m. I’m. Amazing. I’m amazing. You’re amazing,” Jaskier says and then backtracks because that was too obvious. “We’re all amazing,” he counters. There. That should fix it. 

“Right,” Geralt muses, that stupid grin on his face again. Is it fondness? Is it? He needs to ask. But then again, maybe Jaskier won’t survive Geralt saying no. So he doesn’t ask. 

“Don’t you judge me,” Jaskier says - slurs even, oh no. 

“I’d never,” Geralt replies. Sarcastic. He’s always so sarcastic. Jaskier loves it. 

“I. I am. Whoo.” The world tilts a bit. How much has he had to drink again? “Whoa.” 

“Alright?” Geralt asks, but this time, he actually sounds concerned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone consume that much alcohol in so little time.”

“I’m a master,” Jaskier says. Then, “Oh wow. You have a wedding band.”

“I’m married,” Geralt laughs. 

“Oh no,” Jaskier mutters in dismay. “Oh no, when? To who?”

“To you,” Geralt replies, something a bit stricken in his tone. “We  _ just _ went through this, Jaskier….”

“To me?” Jaskier asks. Holy fuck when did he get himself together enough to admit to Geralt he was in love with him? When did that happen? When did he and Geralt get married? What the fuck? What amazing news!

But wait. Wait. They  _ had _ just gone through this. And…

Oh no.  _ No _ , it was all a sham. For the wedding. For his sister’s wedding. For Hedwig’s wedding. Oh. How awful. And yet, Jaskier can’t help but think that Geralt must be his best friend in the whole wide world if he was willing to do this for Jaskier’s sake. 

“Oh right,” Jaskier mutters, leaning heavily against Geralt’s shoulder. He smells like leather and sage and cedarwood. Amazing. Jaskier is so in love with him, it’s sickening. “I remember.” He feels Geralt relax against him. “Oh, hush.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I need another pint,” Jaskier says. “I can remember my name and that I’m not  _ actually _ married to you. That’s a no-no.” 

“Another pint?”

“Actually maybe another pint of that Kaedweni stout  _ and  _ a shot of that Redanian liquor. Throw in a cup of wine, that red vintage from Toussaint, and we’ll be golden.”

“Can your liver handle that?” Geralt ponders, even as he waves down a bar wench and places the order, nodding to Lorenia and her bag of coin as the payment. 

“We’ll see.”

It turns out, Jaskier  _ could _ keep all the alcohol down. Now, how his liver would fare in the future is another story that he tries very hard not to think of. If anything, he will be sympathetic to himself if his liver gives up the ghost one day due to his drinking. It will be Geralt’s fault for making Jaskier want him to the point of drowning. 

“I can maybe feel my third toe on my left foot,” Jaskier admits when Geralt asks him how he’s feeling half an hour later. He grins, but Geralt doesn’t grin back. Another pity. 

“I’m going to take that as our cue to leave,” Geralt says, lips pressed against Jaskier’s temple. Or are they? Jaskier won’t put anything past his booze-addled brain at this point. But Geralt leaves his side for a few moments, then returns with Lorenia in tow, swaying on her feet. 

“It’s almost midnight,” she giggles. “We’ve barely been out three hours - are we  _ old?” _

“Maybe,” Jaskier admits. “I’m married and you’re going to be and I have a child - oh  _ gods _ , we’re  _ old.” _

Geralt ushers them out of the tavern at that point, valiantly trying not to laugh at them if his pressed together lips are anything to go by. Jaskier can’t really blame him. He and Lorenia are bumping into each other and anyone else who happens to be unlucky enough to be in their path. Geralt gets them on the cart and everything goes blurry and sideways for a moment. Jaskier decides that he’ll just close his eyes for a moment against the rumbling of the carriage. But the next time he opens his eyes, they’re passing through the estate gates. 

There’s still a footman present, probably out late anticipating their return. Geralt hands the man the reins, hops off the cart, and helps Lorenia and then Jaskier down. Curiously, his hand stays in Jaskier’s, and it takes the whole trek up the front stairs for Jaskier to remember they have appearances to keep up. Geralt slams the large knocker only once, but another servant is opening the door just as soon as the sound finishes thundering. After thanking them and assuring them he could get both Jaskier and Lorenia upstairs, Geralt gets them inside. Soon, he’s herding them upstairs to Jaskier’s and Geralt’s shared suite. Lorenia has a bottle of  _ something _ still and refuses to sleep unless they drink all of it. Jaskier can’t blame her. That sounds  _ rational _ . 

“Do you remember when we first met?” Lorenia says, sipping from the bottle. She’s draped over their little couch, in front of the fire someone has kept lit. Bless them. Jaskier sits on the floor directly in front of her. Geralt sits behind him, for some reason or other. Jaskier doesn’t know why and doesn’t trust himself to ask. 

“Ugh, gross, of course,” Jaskier responds. “Waleska brought you home for the summer, and I thought you were the prettiest one in the room.” Then he laughs and takes a swig from her bottle. It’s sugar sweet at first, then biting and gross enough to make all the hair stand up on his body and give his gag reflex a run for his money. Awful stuff. He takes another swig, just for good measure. 

“And now, I’m going to get married, the day after next,” Lorenia says with a saccharine sigh. “To your  _ sister _ .” She takes the bottle from Jaskier’s numb fingers and tips it back into her mouth. Her lips twist as she pulls the bottle away, passing it back to Jaskier. Geralt intercepts it, takes a swig from the bottle and makes a gentle retching sound.

“There is something  _ broken _ with both your taste buds,” he growls from his spot behind Jaskier. Jaskier hadn’t even realized, but he’s leaned up against Geralt’s chest now, warm and firm. He feels like he’s floating, but Geralt’s heavy arms are there to anchor him down. And - is Geralt nuzzling him? Oh no, _ Jaskier  _ is nuzzling Geralt. And Geralt is letting him. Probably because Jaskier is so drunk and Geralt feels pity. Right? Right. 

“...hello?” Jaskier looks up, focusing back on Lorenia where she’s calling to him from the couch. “I  _ said _ what was your wedding song? Did you - did you have one?” She’s reclined on the low couch, an embroidered pillow propping her head up. Her eyes are half-lidded and unfocused. 

“I - of course we had a-a-a  _ wedding _ song,” Jaskier insists even as Geralt tenses up behind him. He digs his elbow into Geralt’s side. Even drunk and half responsive Jaskier can fake this better than Geralt can. He hopes that if Lorenia  _ does _ notice anything, she chalks it up to Geralt simply being a private person who doesn’t want the particulars of his life on display. 

“What was it, then? Hmm? Sing to me, Julian, sing me your sappy, wedding love song,” she giggles, looking up at the ceiling and the shadows flickering across it from the fire at their backs. 

“Uh.” Fuck. What song would he have approved of for his and Geralt’s wedding feast song? It’s the song that would have opened their reception, if they had actually gotten married. Is there one? Jaskier is too drunk to think properly, so he gropes for his lute, safely on a stand in the room. Jaskier continues to scrabble, making whiny noises because  _ he can’t reach, damn-it _ . He’s startled when he feels Geralt shift and push the neck of the lute into his hand, having grabbed it for him. Jaskier turns and locks eyes with Geralt over his shoulder. Geralt’s face is shrouded in darkness, his large body blotting out the firelight behind him. 

“Julian?” Lorenia calls. 

“Yeah, yes,” Jaskier mutters, sitting up a bit. Geralt helps with that too. 

“Alright?” Geralt murmurs by his ear. “You don’t have to if you don’t have anything. Best not to -  _ force  _ it.” The way Geralt says that, as if Jaskier would  _ have to _ force himself to love Geralt, as if Jaskier wasn’t already so helplessly down that particular rabbit hole. But alas, how could Geralt know?

“Hush, love,” Jaskier mumbles, swatting his hand behind him so he doesn’t have to keep looking at Geralt’s face. But at the endearment, the song comes to Jaskier, bubbling up. It’s not one he plays often, just in smaller venues known for being couples’ retreats. He knows they’ll appreciate it. He used to hate that so many of his songs had Geralt at the center, but now, when it’s so relevant, he’s grateful for it. He knows at least Lorenia will hear the love in his voice. After all, she’s known him long enough she knows what to listen for. 

He starts to strum, his fingers operating on muscle memory from so many formative years of playing in this sorry state. He uses a simpler pattern of picking so he doesn’t fumble it too badly. As it is, the strings feel like water, like he’s dragging his fingers through a running river. Jaskier decides not to think about it too much as he sings. 

“Love run, love run   
For all the things you’ve done.   
Run for all the things that drum,   
Run for all those pages thumbed.”

Behind him, Geralt has frozen again. Jaskier keeps singing, hoping the slur in his voice isn’t ruining the amount of emotion he’s feeding into it. It’s how he feels whenever he’s with Geralt.  _ Love, run _ , he thinks to himself. Run to the one you love. And he continues, the song catching up with them in the now,

“Love run, love run   
For all the things we wished we’d done.   
Run from all you know that’s coming,   
Run to show that  _ love’s worth running to _ .” 

As the last line leaves his lips, Jaskier can’t help but feel like he’s just revealed something. There’s a glint in Lorenia’s eyes as his playing comes to a slow halt, the last twang of his lute hanging in the air, having yet to fade out. 

“Get it?” Jaskier says, because he can’t just  _ shut the fuck up _ for once in his gods-damned sorry life. “Because I’m always running  _ to _ Geralt instead of away.” He fiddles with his lute’s tuning pegs. “He’s my love,” and now Jaskier half-turns to Geralt to say, “and you’re  _ worth  _ running to.”

Geralt’s arms are around him, briefly of course, but Jaskier feels him press the side of his face to the top of Jaskier’s head and just sit and breathe. In his drunken state, Jaskier can only surmise that Geralt has had a lot of people run away  _ from  _ him in his life and that it must be nice that someone, regardless of who, has decided he’s worth running  _ to _ . 

“So… your wedding song basically told your husband to… run away from you?” Lorenia teases, breaking whatever tension or magic had been around them. 

Geralt starts to laugh then, deep from his belly and vibrating against Jaskier’s back. 

“See, you missed the whole point!” Jaskier complains, pouting and not caring who sees him. “That wasn’t - that’s not it!”

“First thing you do when you get married: tell your husband to head for the hills!” Lorenia cackles. She’s kicked up her feet now, laughing herself silly, clutching her stomach. “Oh, Julian, you absolute  _ mess _ .” She snorts and lolls her head to look at them both on the floor. “And  _ you,” _ she says to Geralt, “you were wooed by  _ this?” _ Lorenia flaps a hand at Jaskier. 

“Hmm,” Geralt humms, face still pressed to Jaskier’s hair, still laughing. Jaskier thinks he never wants to be parted from Geralt. He thinks he understands the appeal of marriage, in that respect. “I suppose I was.”

“He supposes,” Jaskier mutters, squirming away from Geralt. If he only supposes then Jaskier  _ supposes _ he’ll just go off to bed. But Geralt only tightens his hold and drags Jaskier back against him, his hands skirting down Jaskier’s sides because he  _ knows _ Jaskier is ticklish. Jaskier can’t help but giggle at how silly they must look, two grown men, squirming about on the carpet by the fire, one of them getting tickled while the other does the tickling. By the time he’s done laughing, he’s too tired to move and instead, settles against Geralt’s chest. 

“Hmm?” Geralt muses, a question all on its own. 

“That’s it, I’m sleeping here, right here on this floor, against you -  _ oh.”  _ Here comes the spins. Everything starts to move, even when Jaskier shuts his eyes against it. Holy  _ shit _ . He’s going to vomit if Geralt so much as takes a deep breath. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Talk to me.”

“Gonna be sick if we move,” Jaskier admits. They’d jostled too much when messing around. “Ugh. This will be awful come morning.” He hadn’t been thinking of that. 

“I had fun!” Lorenia says from the couch. She’s settled as well, an arm thrown over her eyes, her whole body boneless against the cushions. “S’nice couch.”

“Worst couch,” Jaskier counters. “My  _ husband _ is a nice couch.”

“Don’t objectify me,” Geralt responds dryly. 

“Sorry, love.”

The silence after is filled with Lorenia’s soft snores. One of her feet kicks the air and then twitches. 

“You alive?” Geralt asks. 

“Ask me again in the morning,” Jaskier mutters. Everything feels warm and tingly now. That’s much better. He yawns and presses his head to Geralt’s chest. Gods, but Sober Jaskier is going to be  _ so _ jealous of Drunk Jaskier in the morning. Jealous, and livid at the amount he drank, but jealous nonetheless. Jaskier knows he’d just be overthinking all of this if he was sober, so he’s just happy that he’s not and that he can have this, even just for now. For now, he can pretend that he’s married to Geralt of Rivia and here they lie, warm and sated by the fire. 

“Can I move you without you getting sick all over the place?” 

Jaskier blinks blearily back into awareness with a, “Huh?”

“Can I move you?” Geralt repeats, his voice is gentle and low,. 

“Oh, hmm, I - yeah,” Jaskier gets out. He expects Geralt to help him stand, but the man just gathers him up against his chest and rises to his feet. His hold on Jaskier is so secure, Jaskier doesn’t even feel them get vertical. He’s too tired to think about the fact that Geralt of Rivia is holding him in his arms, is walking him to their shared bed, is undressing him, sliding off his boots, and changing him into a sleeping shirt. Jaskier feels the spins threatening him again, but Geralt finally finishes getting him ready for bed and disappears. Jaskier takes this as his time to slip into oblivion, while he still can. 

He’s woken some point later when the bed dips, Geralt getting in beside him. Jaskier knows he’s in the middle of the bed, that he should roll over to put some space between them. But he doesn’t care, not really, not right now. Geralt has room. If he has to cuddle up to Jaskier in order not to fall off the bed, that’s his own prerogative. 

Sure enough, he hears a huff tinged with fondness, he hopes, and feels something warm and solid against his side. 

Jaskier falls back into sleep, a small smile on his face. 


	6. With All Its Sand and Sin A-Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been going well. Too well. It's time to muck things up a bit. And the wedding is tomorrow.

The smile is _gone_ when he finally cracks an eye open to greet the next day. 

“Oh, kill me now, please,” he groans as his brain scrambles itself inside his skull. “Have mercy.”

“I could do that, you know,” Geralt says from somewhere else, away from the bed. The night before is hazy. Jaskier knows there was singing, far too much singing and even more booze. He doesn’t need his memory to tell him that last bit. His aching head and churning stomach are enough of a hint. 

When he peeks out from where he’s pulled a pillow over his head, Jaskier sees Geralt sitting at the small table by the window, oiling one of his swords with whatever it is he carries on him. It’s the silver one. Geralt has his hair down. He’s shirtless. Why the fuck is he shirtless and wild-maned when Jaskier can’t handle it? Good grief, but Jaskier already feels like he’s dying, Geralt doesn’t have to add to it. 

“You’d do that?” Jaskier moans. “You’d do that for me? Put me out of my misery?” He ducks back under the pillow so he doesn’t have to see Geralt’s face when he smiles and chuckles, the sun highlighting his eyes. 

“Under regular circumstances, maybe, if given a good argument. But seeing as tomorrow is your sister’s wedding…”

“Oh, fuck, Lorrie!” Jaskier says, _almost_ bolting upright. He goes to do so but feels his head screams in protest, and he stops moving before his mouth joins it. 

“She’s fine. I checked on her this morning. Helped her get to bed. She’s spending the rest of the day with Hedwig, recovering. Something or other about tradition.”

“...this morning?” Jaskier squeaks out, his voice grating on his ears. He turns slowly onto his side. He tastes bile at the back of his throat. “What - what time is it?”

“A bit past noon,” Geralt muses. Jaskier hears the slide of something wet against metal. Fuck. He’s slept in. And he’s not sure if he had thrown up last night because he can still feel that nasty alcoholic mix in his stomach, but the nausea isn’t as bad as it could be so maybe he had. “Are you alive under there or am I speaking with your ghost?”

“Don't sound so bloody smug,” Jaskier grouches, voice scratchy and tasting of death. “Ugh, bad idea. Bad, bad idea. I should have stopped after the first song.”

“Probably.”

“And you? You sound fine.”

“I didn’t drink like a fish.”

“ _Bor_ ing.”

“And y _e_ t,” Geralt responds, dragging out the middle, “I’ve been up the last six hours with not an ache in the world. And you haven't.”

“Fine, you win,” Jaskier groans, readjusting. There. He doesn’t feel _as_ bad. He startles a bit when the bed dips. Geralt must be sitting on the edge. Jaskier still has the pillow on his face, protecting him from the sunlight. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Geralt asks, what Jaskier calls his Patient Voice on - the one he usually uses when Ciri is having a difficult time of something and Geralt is determined not to let himself get testy over it. Jaskier appreciates it, he does. But he wants some quiet to sort his memories of last night and suppress the ache in his head that’s radiating into his eye sockets.

“If there’s any way you can make me feel like nails _aren’t_ being driven into my eyeballs while we’re tossing on the raging sea, that would be great,” Jaskier grits out. “If not, a little quiet would be nice.”

The bed springs back up as Geralt stands. “Let me see what I can do.” He walks out, quietly shutting the door behind him. Jaskier wonders if he put on a shirt before he left. 

Now. Last night. 

He remembers the tavern, singing with Lorenia, drinking, drinking, another song, more drinking. Far too much drinking, goodness, and Geralt hadn’t even commented, had just let him be. Well, Jaskier supposes he _is_ a grown adult that can make his own choices and Geralt has no right or obligation to stop him unless he’s in mortal danger. But didn’t his liver being in mortal danger count? Evidently not. 

Now where was he? Ah yes, then they left the tavern. The ride back is hazy. He has no idea how Geralt got the two of them up the stairs. He hopes Ciri was in bed by then, nice and cozy asleep so she didn’t have to witness what was probably a mortifying display of drunken behavior. Oh gods, and then Lorenia had _more_ alcohol - how _had_ she gotten that bottle? What else?

Oh. She’d asked about their wedding song. And Jaskier had just… pulled something sentimental from his arse. Wonderful. 

But he had meant it, and even he couldn’t deny himself that, not while drunk, not when he could later use his drunkenness as an explanation of such behavior. What next? Geralt had….

Geralt had just held him. 

No. No, Jaskier has to be making that up, or reading into it. Geralt had probably just been steadying him. But hadn’t he also poked fun, teased, _tickled_ even? No. Drunken shenanigans. Another wave of nausea rolls over him and Jaskier has to stop and focus on _not_ ruining the sheets for a moment. When it passes, he returns to his musings. Surely, if all that _had_ happened, Geralt had just been doing that for Lorenia’s sake, to save face, as part of their farce. 

Gods, had Geralt _really_ carried him to bed? Not that Jaskier had much dignity left at that point, but still. Well, Jaskier should be grateful. He’s alive and in one piece - and so is Lorenia. He just hopes Hedwig, Waleska, and Yennefer had a better night. Or rather, a more forgiving morning. 

Jasker settles into bed, snuggling down. He knows he’ll be bed-bound for the day - at least until dinner. The movement causes the collar of his sleeping shirt to brush up against his nose. It smells so strongly of Geralt’s sweat that Jaskier has to pry his eyelids from his eyeballs and look down. He hasn’t noticed until now but… the sleeping shirt is too large on him. He’s practically swimming in it. Granted, it feels easier to breathe in in his state, but he’s pretty fucking sure _this is Geralt’s sleeping shirt_. 

Was _that_ why Geralt had been shirtless?

It takes a while, and Jaskier drifts in and out through it, but eventually Geralt returns with something to soothe his head and stomach. He closes the blinds so Jaskier can remove his pillow, helps Jaskier sit up, and gives him some sharp smelling tea to drink. It makes him want to retch, but it burns pleasantly down his throat. 

“Ginger and chamomile, among other things,” Geralt explains. He is, unfortunately, wearing a loose-fitting black tunic, the laces undone under his collarbones. Geralt distracts Jaskier again with another drink, this one bitter and hot. He swallows it down though. “That’ll help with your head.”

“You're being awfully nice,” Jaskier says, squinting at him in suspicion.

“Isn’t this what a good husband would do?” Geralt muses. It’s a punch to the gut and leaves Jaskier gasping a bit. Because Geralt hadn’t been teasing or sarcastic, just thoughtful. Like he was actually trying. 

“I - well, yes,” Jaskier finally answers. He doesn’t know what else to do. “So. Um. Is Ciri alright?” Ciri is neutral ground. Besides, he has to think of a way to ask about the shirt. Or does he? Can he just ignore that?

“Hmm,” Geralt confirms. “She had an entertaining night with your niece and grandmother.” One eyebrow goes up and Jaskier watches it soar. “They played betting games with chocolates as the stakes, then your grandmother told them spooky stories until they fell asleep.” He huffs. “Needless to say, she had a wonderful time. They’re out fishing with Tanek. _No_ trees.”

“Oh, the tree thing. Listen, she handled it well but I was worried witless,” Jaskier blathers. He can do this. He can talk about literally anything else aside from _why the fuck he’s wearing Geralt’s shirt._ “Hey Geralt? Why am I in your sleeping shirt?” Alright, apparently not. Oh, impulsive words and Jaskier’s frequent lack of a filter. “I mean - that is to say-”

“You got sick on yours in the middle of the night,” Geralt answers, cutting him off. But he averts his eyes. 

“So I _did_ vomit!” Jaskier crows. Now that he thinks about it, he vaguely remembers clutching at Geralt in the middle of the night, that awful feeling of his mouth watering creeping up on him right before he spewed. Geralt had moved him to the edge of the bed, but it _had_ gotten all down his front and the floor. “I still feel awful.”

“You look awful,” Geralt snorts. Jaskier glares, but it doesn’t do much to a witcher. “Anyway, you were cold after we got it off you so….” He shrugs. “I gave you mine.” 

“You gave me yours,” Jaskier repeats. “Amazing.” Geralt frowns, but Jaskier can’t even process that. They’re friends, this is fine, this is so very fine except it’s not, not even a little bit. Jaskier feels like his skin is on fire and his dick is getting hard _under_ the covers - thankfully. “I’m not doing anything today,” Jaskier declares. Geralt nods. 

“Alright,” he says, then gets up and returns to his waiting swords. Jaskier realizes then that Geralt is going to stay in with him. Huh. Fancy that. 

“Geralt,” he asks, a thought occurring to him, “I never asked, but… when you were out hunting with Dietrich and Tanek yesterday, what did he say to you?” 

Geralt stops wiping down his sword and sighs. “Just wanted to make sure I hadn’t cast a spell on you to get you to stay with me.” Jaskier winces. He appreciates his brother-in-law being concerned and he knows the man has always considered himself like an older brother to Jaskier since he’s been around since Jaskier’s youth, but that was crossing a line. “Thankfully your oldest nephew has read a bit about witchers.” Now, he huffs a laugh and goes back to wiping down his sword. “Even called us by our old name - _wiedźmin._ ” Jaskier shivers to hear the foreign word out of Geralt’s mouth. He hopes Geralt never speaks in the Elder tongue around him because he _will_ melt. “Told his father witchers don’t have that kind of magical ability and that you’re eccentric enough to go after me on your own.”

“Oh Tanek, what a saint,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ll yell at Dietrich for you later - when my head won’t explode with the volume.” He winces and rubs his temples.

“He cares about you, that’s all,” Geralt admonishes. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

“Yes, but you’ve had to deal with a lot of looks and words from people since we got here,” Jaskier snaps. It’s too much and he grimaces against the rattling he swears he can hear in his head. “Ah - fuck.”

“Lay down,” Geralt growls. 

“It’s a hangover, not a mortal wound,” Jaskier grumbles, but he lays back. It’s better. His stomach has settled a bit, but it’s taking a bit longer for his head to follow. “I’m still sorry - about Dietrich. And… thanks again. For all this.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, gruff. When Jaskier looks at him, Geralt is pointedly looking down at his blade, testing the edge with his thumb. 

“No, really. You’ve been doing better than I could have hoped. I guess you do know me,” Jaskier says. Geralt deserves the praise, after all. 

“You really thought I didn’t?” Geralt asks, still looking down. There’s something… fragile in the way he says it. Jaskier wishes Geralt would look up. He’s a bit thankful that Geralt doesn’t. 

“Not like this,” Jaskier admits. “But… I’m glad of it.” Geralt snorts, a twitch of a smile coming to his lips. He still doesn’t look up, but he does actually focus on caring for his blade. The day passes with Jaskier going in and out of sleep, staying hydrated, and watching Geralt care for his various weapons and armor that needed upkeep. By the time the sky darkens, he’s feeling well enough to try eating. 

And then it is time for dinner. 

His sisters come down with their respective families. Lorenia looks a little tired, but none the worse for wear. She sits by Hedwig and across from Waleska, going over last minute details about tomorrow’s prewedding schedule. Their mother butts in here and there, their father discussing something softly with Granny. The children are seated down the table on either side. Geralt sits by him at the other end of the table, quiet as usual but not uncomfortable. Across from them, Ciri titters about what she spent the day doing. Apparently, after the fishing, Jaskier’s father had shown her the library on the floor where Geralt and Jaskier were staying. She’d spent the rest of her time there reading. 

“Marcek tried to read with me, but he got bored so easily,” she says, grinning. Zefiryna snorts into her soup. “Then Tanek came and sat with me for a while. He’s much quieter.” Tanek nods to her politely. Jaskier suspects Tanek sees Ciri the way he sees Zefiryna: small, mischievous, and in need of someone older to watch out for her. He’s not entirely wrong. 

“Glad someone listened this time and stayed away from all the living trees,” Jaskier teases. Ciri still slits her eyes at him and tries to subtly kick him under the table. Her foot collides with Geralt’s shin, not Jaskier’s, and her eyes go wide. Geralt just sighs, deep and long suffering. 

“All the children in the world,” Geralt says, “and I chose _you_ . Remember that.” Jaskier does. It’s the only real _choice_ Geralt has ever made. After spending the day just observing Geralt, it’s all he can think of - the choices Geralt has and hasn’t made, and especially the ones he _won’t ever_ make. 

“Then this is _your_ fault?” Ciri counters. Jaskier’s sisters chuckle at the other end of the table, eavesdropping while speaking with their significant others. His parents are now busy hashing out the last few details for tomorrow. He doesn’t remember Waleska’s wedding being this involved. But then, he’d been younger. Yennefer hasn’t joined them for dinner and Jaskier had heard his mother send someone with food up to her room a few moments ago. Class act, he thinks. He wonders if she’s back with that servant girl.

It’s then that he notices Granny is watching them. That’s never a good sign. 

“Speaking of choice,” she says, and everyone stops what they’re doing and looks up. 

When Granny visits, she always sits at the head of the table, where Jaskier’s father would be. The man still defers to his mother and wife whenever possible. Some have called Jaskier’s father weak for that, in the past, but Jaskier thinks it's an honorable and smart thing to do. Not only does he allow these women to be equals in his life, in a world that often goes against them, but they _are_ both smarter than he is as well. 

“Choice,” Jaskier murmurs. He hates the word already. 

“I would like to formally welcome Geralt of Rivia to the Pankratz family,” Granny continues, “as it was my grandson’s _choice_ to share his life with him.” She turns to Lorenia, looking well even after the night they had and holding Hedwig’s hand above the table to Granny’s left. “I’ll embarrass you tomorrow at the reception dinner, dear, don’t you worry,” Granny reassures her. Lorenia laughs. 

Geralt bows his head politely, eyes trained on Jaskier all the while, and says, “Thank you, my lady.”

“I am curious,” Granny continues, “why my grandson chose a witcher, of all kinds of people. It’s no secret that Julian can be… rambunctious when it comes to his partners.” The thing is, no one speaks up. No one tells Granny that it’s in the past or that maybe she shouldn’t be bringing it up. No one _defends_ him. Goodness, his mother must have told Granny all the mysterious and sudden circumstances of his marriage. Wonderful. “Everywhere, that is.”

“More like every _one,_ ” Tanek mutters under his breath, the only one old enough to really catch on to Jaskier’s habits. His parents share brief glances of silent agreement and that makes Jaskier feel a bit sick. And yet….

Beside Tanek, Ciri elbows him in the ribs. _Hard_. Tanek gasps and tries to keep it quiet, shocked that such a small arm could hurt so much. At the look on her face, his protests die on his tongue. Jaskier feels something warm him at that. 

“That doesn’t mean any of us understand his odd choice. But it is good to see him settled,” Granny continues, staring Jaskier down and only giving him a reprieve when she switches to staring Geralt down which, really Jaskier thinks, isn’t any better. “I assume you chose my grandson because he brings a sense of normalcy into your life. That’s easy enough to understand.”

Here, Geralt snorts. Jaskier can’t look at anyone. He’s too embarrassed. Too hurt. Of all the assumptions he didn’t think of going into this, it was the assumption everyone would have that Geralt chose him, and that it was an easy choice at that. No one knows the difficulty their little group has with choice and destiny and fate and love and whatever else _nonsense_ they can get themselves into. Jaskier _wants_ to be chosen, by Geralt no less. And here everyone is, already congratulating him on the impossible. 

“Jaskier gets me into more trouble than not,” Geralt says, finally looking at Granny. Jaskier’s head shoots up. _Shut up_ , he thinks. “We used to get chased out of villages if he’d been with whatever reigning noble’s heir.” The adults at the table laugh at that. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “But…” Geralt looks at Jaskier now. “He is my… best friend. He keeps me company. He….” Geralt looks away now and Jaskier wishes he wouldn’t, wishes Geralt would look back at him. “He stays with me because he’s not afraid.”

“Oh, I’m plenty afraid,” Jaskier cuts in, trying to lighten the moment and make himself feel better. Geralt stiffens beside him but Jaskier just wants Geralt to look at him, damnit. “He’s a sight to see in the mornings. Or when he hasn’t eaten recently. That is to say, absolutely feral.” Ciri bursts out into laughter. “See, she knows what I’m talking about, she’s seen it.” The rest of them laugh as well, but Geralt is strangely silent and won’t meet his gaze. 

Dinner feels awkward afterward, though perhaps only for the two of them. 

They settle Ciri after checking that Yennefer is no longer _occupied_ in her room. Ciri gets bathed and dressed for bed, and they promise to get her in the morning, nice and early for the wedding. Jaskier gets to sit up front because he’s family, and that privilege extends to his spouse and child, so Ciri has been excited all week to be sitting so close and next to _Zefiryna_ no less. She’s tired, though, from a long and hard day.

“I am sorry about the other day - about my arm,” she murmurs as she drifts into sleep. Jaskier tries to make eye contact with Geralt, but Geralt still won’t look at him. “I didn’t get to say it yesterday.”

“It’s done, you silly thing,” Geralt says instead. “Sleep now.” 

The moment Ciri’s breathing evens out, Geralt is gone from the room, racing off to their suite. It takes all of Jaskier’s speed to chase after him, to _attempt_ to keep up, because he fails at that too. 

“What is your problem?!” Jaskier snaps when he finally gets to the room. He’s bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. _“You’ve_ been in a bad mood since dinner time.” He stops, contemplates it, and then tries not to grimace as he says, “Is it because Yennefer wasn’t there?”

“Contrary to popular belief, Yennefer is not the source of all my bad moods, bard,” Geralt sneers, finally turning around. His eyes. Oh, his eyes. 

They’re full of hurt. 

“What - I, no, what is going on?” Jaskier asks, confused. “If anyone should be upset, it’s _me_ . I got the brunt of absolute _shite_ coming from my grandmother during that conversation.” 

“It’s nothing,” Geralt mutters, yanking his shirt over his head. He pauses. Sighs. Seems to get sad. “It’s nothing,” he whispers, shaking his head. “It’s always nothing.” 

“None of that!” Jaskier yells. Geralt started this, maybe, but Jaskier is going to finish it. “What made you so upset? Just tell me!” Geralt has pulled on his sleeping shirt, shucked his pants off to the side, kicked off his boots. He turns to Jaskier, dressed for bed. He looks so tired. 

“I would ask,” Geralt says, not looking Jaskier in the eye, “that you don’t make jokes about fearing me.” He takes a moment, swallows, lets his eyes flick back up to Jaskier. “I am well acquainted with the fear that the general public has toward me. I am less acquainted with _you_ having that same fear.”

“It was a joke!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. “You know you don’t scare me, Geralt.”

“I’m sure that sometimes, I do.” Geralt shrugs. 

“Oh gods. If there’s one thing I can agree with Yennefer on, it’s when you - you do this _thing_ , this _thing_ where you start to feel sorry for yourself. Oh, woe is me, I’m a witcher! No one wants to be around me except a sadistic witch, a screaming child, and an _annoying bard_ .” Jaskier is breathing heavily and Geralt is just staring at him. _Finally_ , though Jaskier isn’t sure this is how he wanted to reclaim the man’s gaze. “Enough! Even if Yennefer hasn’t decided to choose you, even if Ciri is bound by destiny to be around you, you know who isn’t? Me!” Jaskier jabs a thumb at his chest. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts. But Jaskier lets everything that has been bothering him about this whole fiasco stream out. Geralt doesn’t deserve this, Jaskier thinks. But the thought is distant. 

“No!” Jaskier says. “I stand by you, all the time. Yes, I get us into scrapes, but so do you! And I _love_ it, Geralt, I do. I love living like this, on the road, with you. And I know it’s not your fault and you’re doing _me_ a favor, but do you know how it feels to have everyone _assume_ you’ve chosen me because you actually want to be around me? That someone, _anyone_ \- doesn’t have to be you in particular - has made that choice and picked _me?_ Fuck, Geralt, even _you’ve_ been chosen like that - who cares if it was by _me_ of all people!” Jaskier doesn’t know if Geralt has picked up on what he’s just admitted to but at this moment he doesn’t really care.

Geralt’s eyes widen, golden flecks flashing in the light of the fire as it dances across his face. 

“Jaskier,” he says, mouth pulling into a frown. 

“But alas! My family questions _me_ the whole time! Like it isn’t a _bit_ odd that a _witcher_ is travelling willingly with a bard. No, the _eccentric_ bard that has been known - as _everyone_ likes to point out - for having _wild, varying_ taste in people gets questioned why someone out of the ordinary is in their life. Because that’s how I am, that’s why! Because I want you to be!” 

Geralt finally walks forward and grasps Jaskier’s wrists in his hands, murmuring, “Jaskier, calm down.”

“This is a disaster. My family thinks you're weird for having chosen me and you haven’t. I can’t stay in one place or with one person long enough for that to ever happen! I had to ask my _best friend_ to lie to my whole family with me because I can’t even have a normal relationship with someone. Even you have Yennefer, regardless of how awful it can be. At your best times, you two have had more romantic stability together than I’ve ever had in my whole life.”

“Now who’s feeling sorry for themselves?” Geralt says. But he’s trying to smile, trying to lighten the mood. It’s not working. Jaskier’s not in the mood. He wants to be miserable because he deserves it. Geralt is helping him and he’s _whinging_ about his family being how they always are. 

“I just want this to be over!” Jaskier says, yanking himself away from Geralt. He’s so upset and he can’t stop it. Maybe because he knows that after this, that’s it. He’s never going to be able to touch Geralt again, not like this. He’ll have to take off the ring. He’ll have to stop calling Geralt his husband. Jaskier hates that and hates that he can’t say anything about it either. Hates that his family think little of him by way of emotional and romantic maturity - though he can’t even blame them, and he hates that too. 

“We’ll be gone the day after tomorrow. Then it’s to the road,” Geralt says, looking away. Everything, from the tension in his shoulders, to the grimace on his face, screams of awkwardness. 

“And if I don’t want to stay with you?” Jaskier snaps, hating that he knows he will, that he’d stay in this torturous prison of pining for Geralt. But it’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it, knows that wasn’t the sensitive part of their relationship to press on. Geralt _had_ just told Granny that he liked that Jaskier _chose_ to stay with him against all odds, and here Jaskier was, implying that maybe he _didn’t_ want to stay. 

Geralt is stiff, not with hurt but resignation. It’s worse than hurt. 

“Then you are free to do as you please, Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs. “As always.” Geralt leaves, goes into the bathroom and shuts the door gently. Jaskier stares at the fire and hates himself a bit. He changes into his sleep clothes, moves into the parlor, then the library, restless. He just doesn’t want to be around when Geralt finally goes back into the room. _Their_ room. He waits for the bedroom door to close, then peeks his head out from behind a shelf. He can’t go back in there, not tonight, after all of that fuss he just kicked up. 

He looks at the low couch in the parlor and decides to just sleep there for the night. There’s an embroidered pillow he can sleep on and he knows where the linen closet is on this floor. He’ll just use the spare blankets in there to sleep with. 

But for now, he tiptoes his way downstairs and into the kitchen, wincing at the creak of one of the old floorboards by the stairs. The embers are still glowing in the hearth, so he stokes them and adds a bit more wood for a proper cook fire, opening the flue. He goes into one of the pantries and takes out a hunk of chocolate. In the back of the kitchen, he opens the hatch in the floor where they keep the icebox and takes out a jug of milk from among the blocks of ice. 

The fire is roaring when he gets back, chocolate and jug in hand. He fills a cast iron kettle with the milk and hangs it on the hook above the hearth fire. Then he fishes out a curved blade to shave the chocolate hunk into slivers. He’s so focused that he doesn’t realize someone is coming until he hears the creak by the stairs again. He turns with a start to the kitchen entrance and there’s Yennefer, in her silky robe, only partially covered, but covered enough. Her violet eyes meet his blue ones in the dark, and then she continues forward, taking a seat on one of the stools by the hearth. 

“What are you doing up so late?” she asks, looking into the fire, at the kettle warming in it 

“Hot chocolate,” he explains, waving the blade and what’s left of the chocolate. It takes her a moment to respond, and in that time, Jaskier has finished shaving the chocolate. 

It’s as he walks over to sprinkle the chocolate shavings into the warming kettle that Yennefer says, “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Jaskier freezes, curses himself for it, and then finishes sprinkling in the chocolate. He caps the kettle and busies himself getting them wooden mugs for the hot drink. Once he has what he needs, he sits in the other stool by the fire, his knees sticking up, the mugs on the floor by his feet. 

“I may have had an argument with our favorite witcher,” he starts. 

“May have?”

“Fine. I did. It was foolish and I am avoiding him. Are you happy?”

“What was it about?”

“What business is it of yours?” Jaskier intones, pretending to check the heating kettle. He knows precisely how long it will take to boil and melt the chocolate into the milk, making a thick, frothy mixture. It definitely hasn’t been long enough. 

“What did you argue about?” she asks, as though he didn’t say anything. Jaskier doesn’t want to share, and at the same time he is incapable, he thinks, of shutting up. 

“As you were not present at dinner,” Jaskier says pointedly, “you did not hear my family - mostly Granny - make a few comments on choice. No one understands how I supposedly chose Geralt as a spouse, but it makes sense that he ‘chose’ me.” His eyes flick to her. “I may have also made a small joke that implied fear of him on my part.” She _tsks_ him and he glares. “Don’t give me that. You’ve done worse. And I’ve never shown him genuine fear.”

“What else?” she murmurs, sitting back and warming her toes by the fire. He snorts. She sits across from him, facing the doorway, while his back is to it. Occasionally her eyes wander to the staircase behind them, but when he turns to look, no one is there. 

“Nosey,” he murmurs. He shrugs, staring at the fire. “It doesn’t matter. Why should I tell you anything?”

“Maybe I want to help,” she says. Jaskier looks up at her and bursts into laughter, lowering his voice once he realizes how loud he is. 

“That’s the funniest thing I think I’ve heard from you,” he admits. 

“Don’t be rude, bard,” Yennefer warns, eyes flashing. “I’m being decent.”

“True,” Jaskier admits. “But I don’t trust it, much.” Yet, he smiles. She’ll figure it out eventually. “It hurts not being chosen, like that, by him. In the end, I’m sure he’ll go back to you. What’s the point then? This farce is seeming more trouble than it’s worth. But everyone here thinks the odd bit is me choosing him - the _actual_ choice that’s already been made is called into question. Ironic, isn’t it?” 

Her face scrunches. Maybe it’s sympathy. Jaskier isn’t sure she knows how to feel that unless it’s directed at Ciri, maybe Geralt. 

“Maybe,” she says. “He’ll be with you until the end of your days, and then I will be there to pick up the pieces. That much is true.” But Jaskier is laughing again, bitterly this time. She opens her mouth to speak, but Jaskier is shaking his head and taking down the kettle, hand careful on the wood handle. He pours the melty chocolate into the two wooden mugs and settles the kettle on the stone by the hearth to stay warm. He hands her one mug and sips at his own. Yennefer sips too, eyes trained on him. 

“He’s not doing anything with me,” Jaskier snorts, voice kept low in case anyone is up and about in the night. They’ve gotten this far, at least. 

“Are you daft?” Yennefer asks. He looks up and bites his lip to keep from snickering at her. Her upper lip is covered in chocolatey foam from her drink. 

“Apparently. I asked a _witcher_ to pretend to be my husband,” Jaskier hisses. 

“You didn’t ask. He offered,” Yennefer points out. 

“We’re friends,” Jaskier explains. 

“That’s not all it is to you.”

“And? Who cares?” Jaskier insists. He stares at the chocolate in his cup, bits floating in the brown foam. “I didn’t mean to be awful tonight. I just - it’s so hard wanting what you can’t have.”

“Imagine not knowing if you actually want it of your own volition, or if it’s something else’s influence,” Yennefer snaps. “At least you know your feelings are your own. Half the time, I don’t know if it’s some blasted wish he made that makes us want to be around each other.” She looks away into the fire. Jaskier can’t help but feel a kinship with her. But then she asks, “Why the witcher?”

“Pardon?” Jaskier says. Is she going to question him too? There’s nothing worse, he thinks, than having his affections questioned by those he thought could _see_ how he felt.

“You’re normal. No magic. No fuss. Regular human, albeit a bit mouthy and troublesome, but he likes that in people, I think.” Yennefer looks back at him. “He’s dangerous. Gruff. Not very handsome, apart from the muscles. But he will pay good attention to you, I suppose.”

“I don’t want to be with him for his _looks or attention_ , Yennefer!” Jaskier snaps, uncaring of his volume. “Not all of us are so shallow. He’s _kind_ , he takes _care_ of people, he _cares_ more than some humans do. However he survived all those advanced mutations that made his eyes gold and hair white, I think it’s because they never took all the humanity out of him. Makes sense, doesn’t it? You need human in you to mutate, so they left it where it was and did those awful things to him anyway. He may not _be_ human anymore, but his _soul_ is, and that’s what counts.” There’s a creak behind him from that damned floorboard and Yennefer’s eyes dart to the stairs. Jaskier goes to turn again, but the mage leans forward and takes his hand. It stops him. 

“And?”

“And?” he repeats, incredulous. “What do you mean _and?_ He lets me _stay_ with him. He doesn’t tie me down to one place. _He’s_ never questioned why I chose him. Not to my face.”

“And you trust him?” Yennefer says, like she’s fishing for something. 

“Don’t you?” Jaskier says. Yennefer shrugs noncommittally. “Of course I trust him!” Jaskier tells her in exasperation. “I love him,” he continues, and then bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. 

“Oh?” she says, letting go and sitting back, pleased, with that slow smile coming to her face. Like the cat that got the canary. 

“Fuck you,” Jaskier spits, chugging the rest of his chocolate. 

“And?”

“And what? I love him and I’m in love with him and it’s pointless and that’s why everything about this farce has bothered me so much. He’s home for me wherever we go and I love him. But I have _you_ and a child to compete with for his affections. So, I obviously come in last every time.” He rolls his eyes, looking into the fire. “What else do you want to hear Yennefer? That I’m jealous of you? I am. That I hurt when he hurts? I do. That every sad song I write that makes my heart ache is about him? It is.” He stares into the fire until he sees spots. “Half the time, I can’t believe someone as strong as him tolerates my presence. I know he doesn’t _hate_ me, I know we’re friends - he’s said as much. It’s not enough. It won’t ever be and I’ll die upset about it.”

“Dramatic,” Yennefer says, but she’s frowning. She prods his leg with her bare foot to get his attention. “You’re unobservant.”

“That’s all you have to say? I’m unobservant? Thank you, Lady Yennefer. Where’s the help you were promising earlier?”

“You’re just not receptive to it,” she insists. She finishes her drink and puts the mug down by her feet. “So you’re in love with the witcher.”

“Yes, yes, hush now. No need to announce it to the world.”

“I thought you were, I just wanted to be sure,” Yennefer clarifies. 

“I’m _so_ glad I could satisfy your curiosity.” 

“There are things I’m not at liberty to share with you, which is why I say this again: he will spend the rest of your days with you and when you are gone, I will be there to clean up the pieces. Though I don’t know in what capacity.”

“And I say that there won’t be pieces,” Jaskier says. There’s more creaking and when he looks back, unhindered this time, there’s still nothing and no one there. Blasted manor is getting old. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course. But I can’t promise I’ll answer,” Yennefer replies. Jaskier should have expected that. 

“Does he feel like home to you? Could you be happy anywhere as long as he’s there?” Jaskier asks. 

Yennefer is silent for a while. He thinks she really won’t answer him. And then. 

“I’m not sure what home is supposed to feel like,” she admits, voice soft. Her eyes are trained on the dying fire in the hearth, embers smoldering amber. “I don’t know what makes me happy, most of the time.” She shrugs. “So, maybe he does, and I can’t recognize it. Maybe I’ll never know, because I keep thinking _something else_ out there will make me happier than he could, but I can never have that something else. So why settle with him - for _less?”_

“That’s awful,” Jaskier blurts, but doesn’t know if he means the feeling is awful or _she’s_ awful for saying Geralt could ever be less. He winces, but she waves him off. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Yennefer murmurs. She stretches, then stands. She extends a hand to him and Jaskier sighs, takes it. Pulling him to his feet, Yennefer appraises him with those piercing eyes she got from her elvish blood. Jaskier could write odes to those eyes but he won't because he hates odes and sometimes, he says he hates Yennefer but knows it’s a lie. 

Gods, maybe Jaskier _is_ a liar. 

“Rest,” she says. “And just apologize to him in the morning. He’ll forgive you.”

“I told him I didn’t want to stay with him after he admitted to my family he likes that I want to stay with him,” Jaskier says dryly. 

“My,” Yennefer says, eyes widening. “For one so skilled with words, you do know how to put your foot in your mouth.” 

“Yes, a special talent, the dark side to being a skilled troubadour,” Jaskier mutters. They walk to the stairs together, stepping on that damned plank, and then Yennefer goes one way, Jaskier the other. He makes his way back up to his suite. It’s so late, his eyes hurt with how tired he is. Everything is bleary, so maybe the bedroom door had _always_ been cracked open a bit, even before he went downstairs, and he just didn’t notice. Jaskier grabs a blanket from the linen closet and collapses onto the couch, his face shoved into the embroidered pillow. The fire out here is just a pile of embers, so Jaskier knows he’s going to wake up freezing. But that whole conversation with Yennefer has exhausted him. He doesn’t care.

He falls into dreamless sleep.


	7. Not While By You I Stand And Hum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day has arrived, which means their little game of pretend must soon end. And maybe it's time Jaskier admitted a few things to Geralt. Maybe it's time Geralt admitted a few things to Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue left after this. 
> 
> Lots of music here!!!! In order of appearance, whether it be a line in Jaskier's songbook, a song Jaskier actually sings for the wedding, or a throwaway line at the end...
> 
> Notebook Songs:  
>  _Frozen Pines_ by Lord Huron  
>  _Awake My Soul_ by Mumford & Sons  
>  _Innocent Bones_ by Iron & Wine (i love them so much, sorry but i'm not sorry)
> 
> The Wedding Songs:  
>  _Love And Some Verses_ by Iron & Wine  
>  _Lover of the Light_ by Mumford & Sons  
>  _The Blower's Daughter_ by Damien Rice  
>  _É Isso Aí_ by Seu Jorge part. Ana Carolina (portuguese cover of The Blower's Daughter)  
>  _Slow Gin_ by Bellowhead (when Jaskier says 'Another reel, I think' this is what I imagine playing)
> 
> Geralt's Song  
>  _In Memoriam_ by the Oh Hellos
> 
> The little line Jaskier sings while he's straddling Geralt is from _Winter's Heir_ by Sea Wolf. The lyrics got changed from _'your emerald eyes and raven hair'_ to fit the story.  
>    
> There's a reference at the end of this to Yennefer cheating on Geralt - I'm not making this up to villainize her; there's a short story in the book Sword of Destiny where Yennefer is sleeping with Istredd and Geralt without explicitly making this known to either of them because she can't decide who she wants to be with, if either of them (I won't spoil the ending to that one for anyone interested). Not explicitly telling your partner that you're sleeping with and emotionally invested in someone else is infidelity - by definition but also in my book. For the purposes of this story it gets referenced, but I'm not going to vilify her for it since this isn't a story about dragging Yennefer (I quite like her anyway, even if I don't always like or agree with her behavior). I just don't want people to think I'm making shit up to paint Yennefer badly cos that's definitely not what's happening here.

Jaskier wakes up in his own bed. 

He has zero recollection of moving there, but there he is, in bed, all toasty and warm. His back doesn’t even ache from having been on the couch in the parlor, so maybe he wasn’t even there long. 

Which means Geralt brought him to bed after all of that. 

Jaskier moans into his pillow. At least he’s alone in his room. The ancient clock on the wall, with its golden gears and intricately carved wood, tells him that the wedding is only three hours away. No doubt guests have already arrived. No doubt Geralt is up and hiding somewhere, waiting for the event to start, brooding away from humanity. 

Jaskier  _ has _ to apologize before the wedding. 

He gets up and gets dressed in his wedding clothes, cerulean and velvet, with pants that are leather and dark. Someone must have fished them out of his bags and ironed them, so they’re neatly pressed and ready to wear. He’d become unused to someone doing everything for him. On the road, it was Jaskier and Geralt splitting chores, Ciri doing what she could to help. He’s gotten so used to that. He doesn’t want to lose it. 

Before he goes, he notices his little leatherbound notebook sitting on the bedside table on Geralt’s side of the bed. It’s unclasped. He frowns and picks it up, flipping through the pages. Nothing seems unduly disturbed. He traces his finger over a few lines in some mismatched, unfinished songs. _ I am ready to follow you even though I don't know where/I will wait in the night until you decide to take me there,  _ one song ends, still not finished. Another begins,  _ how fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes/I struggle to find any truth in your lies/And now my heart stumbles on things I don’t know/My weakness I feel I may finally show. _ Still another has smack in the middle,  _ How every mouth sings of what it's without so we all sing of love/And how it ain't one dog who's good at fucking and denying who he's thinking of. _

All about Geralt. Jaskier wonders if Geralt read through these. Jaskier doesn’t really mind, wishes maybe Geralt had asked first. But then again, maybe not. 

The lower levels of the manor, when he makes it down there, are chaotic. People are running about, getting food ready, finishing last minute decorations. The gardens are lined with tables and linens, the best silver out by bone-china plates. Kegs are being rolled in from town, the best wines brought by crate to stay cool until the feast. Jaskier must have slept well past noon.

“Papa!” he hears, but only turns because he recognizes Ciri’s voice. He’s a bit out of it having slept so long. Ciri is dressed for the wedding, hair down but for a braid that goes around the top of her head like a crown. “Yennefer said to let you sleep. I was worried. And I can’t find Geralt anywhere,” Ciri whispers. “Are you alright?”

“Long night,” Jaskier admits. He hugs her, needing the comfort of her little arms around him. At least  _ someone _ needs him. “I’m going to go find Geralt. Stick with Zefka if we’re not back before they start getting ready to head out.”

“I think your sister will skin you if you’re late, but alright.” She runs off again and Jaskier huffs out a laugh as she goes. He has a feeling he knows where Geralt is, thinking back to Lorenia’s wedding bash. He sneaks out to the stables, taking a longer route so no one catches him going. If his sisters or mother or, heavens forbid it,  _ Lorenia or Yennefer _ catch him, he’ll never be able to find Geralt. They’ll throw him into some task, whether it be helping prepare for the nuptials or entertaining their current guests. He doesn’t have time for that. 

Finally, the stables are in sight.

Jaskier slows and sneaks around to the back entrance. He can hear snuffling and soft mutterings from inside. When he peeks his head around the stable door, he sees Geralt, his head bent to Roach’s. Just as he had thought. 

“I do need to say something,” Geralt tells Roach. “I just don’t know how. You know me, I’m not a man of many words.” Roach whinnies. Beside her, Thistle nickers in response. “Oh, so you’re on her side now, are you?” Geralt says to the gelding. He reaches out to scratch behind Thistle’s ears. “Can’t blame you. And Yennefer was right, as usual, so I can’t blame  _ her _ .” Jaskier moves closer, interested, but it sets off the horses, and Geralt turns, on his guard. 

Jaskier creeps out, saying, “You can always blame me. Since, well, I am to blame.” He shrugs and Geralt relaxes. At least they still have that. “You’ll smell like horse when the wedding starts,” Jaskier admonishes, not getting closer. Now that it’s come to it, he’s having a hard time formulating what he wants to say. “Uh. Hello.”

“Hello,” Geralt responds, just staring at him. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Oh? Just the end about blame…” Jaskier clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry about last night.” He sighs and looks to the horses. Thistle huffs at him, so Jaskier walks over and pets the horse’s nose, just for something to do with his hands. “I was upset and I took it out on you. And I didn’t even mean it!” He finally turns to face Geralt, who is  _ still _ just staring. Well, fine. Jaskier should be used to that by now. “I always want to stay with you, you know that. That’s part of my annoying charm! Still, I shouldn’t have implied otherwise. Or made that joke about being afraid of you.” He sighs, blowing a lock of hair from his face. “So I apologize.” 

Geralt appraises him, like he’s seeing Jaskier with fresh new eyes or for the first time. 

“You’re dressed for the wedding,” Geralt says. 

“I - what? Yes, but did you hear me? I’m apologizing, Geralt,” Jaskier says. 

“I heard you,” Geralt replies easily. “You’re forgiven.”

“I… really? That’s it?” Jaskier asks. He looks into Geralt’s eyes as they’re standing quite close now and sees that there’s no lurking hurt there. Geralt means it. “Huh. I feel I shouldn’t get off that easy.”

“It was a long night,” Geralt says by way of explanation. That doesn’t make sense to Jaskier. 

“A bit, yes,” Jaskier responds. “Thank you for bringing me to bed,” Jaskier says, trying to fight the childish impulse to laugh at how that sounds. Geralt doesn’t bother. He grins. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Though, I think you’re thanking me far too early.”

“Oh, hush, you,” Jaskier says, smacking Geralt on the arm at the tactless joke. He grins and then realizes that Geralt is  _ also _ already dressed for the wedding. Jaskier had been so engrossed in apologizing, he hadn’t even realized. The dark navy doublet with little pearl diamond designs and golden buckles looks even better once it’s actually  _ on _ Geralt’s body and just near it. Yennefer could have probably given Geralt a centimeter or two more to move in, but as it stands now, the fabric hugs every contour of his body. The gold buckles catch the gold in his eyes, the white seed-pearl pulling from the white of Geralt’s hair. His pale skin stands out against the dark color. With his swords strapped to his back and his medallion on, Geralt is a sight to see. The guild of Witcher seems much more noble and gentry-like with Geralt dressed like this. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt says, getting his attention again. Shit, but had Jaskier really been gawking like that? 

“Sorry, just noticed you’re dressed too. Now your wedding clothes will smell of horse as well,” he says with a sigh. He picks a bit of hay from Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt catches his hand. “Hmm?” 

“We have to talk,” Geralt says, though the grimace on his face makes it seem like he just said they have to pull out their teeth with a rusty pair of pliers and nothing to dull the pain. 

“O-oh?” Jaskier says, not liking where this is going. “Do we? Well, it’ll have to be  _ after _ the wedding, because I’m sure people are starting to wonder where we ran off to, and we still need to freshen you up so you don’t smell of  _ stable _ .” There. That should get him out of it. 

But Geralt’s fingers tighten around Jaskier’s wrist - not enough to hurt, but enough to let Jaskier know that this is probably important.  _ No _ , he thinks.  _ No, I’m in no mood for important conversations. _

“It’s about last night,” Geralt continues. 

“I thought we were alright now?” Jaskier asks. 

“No, we are. It’s … not that part,” Geralt admits. Now he’s looking away. “Maybe this  _ would _ be better after the wedding,” he murmurs. “Gives me a bit more time.”

“Yes! Splendid. Let’s go, then. We’ll make you smell like me and then get ready for the proceedings with the rest of my family,” Jaskier says, slipping his wrist from Geralt’s hand and sliding their fingers together instead. 

“Make me smell like you?” Geralt asks as Jaskier tugs him out of the stables. 

“I….” Oh, had he said it like that? “Well, yes. Maybe you’ve noticed that we’ve been using the same scent.”

“I just thought it was easier to use the soap that was already out,” Geralt admits. 

“It’s a thing, among families here,” Jaskier explains. “You use the same scent as your spouse, as a token of intimacy. Other families pick up on the scents. It’s taboo to do it before you get married.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs. He pulls Jaskier under a tree they’d been passing and presses his nose to the hollow at the back of Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier, understandably, freezes and finds it very hard to breathe. Geralt’s breaths tickle on the back of his neck. Anyone could see them, which is probably the point, and yet, Geralt doesn’t seem to be paying attention to their surroundings, or anyone else that  _ isn’t  _ Jaskier. “What is the scent we wear, then?”

Jaskier thinks he’ll swoon. “Cedarwood,” he responds. “And sage.””

“Hmm.” Geralt inhales again, his lips brushing Jaskier’s ear. “I like it.”

_ And I like you _ , Jaskier thinks. 

“Good, good,” Jaskier says, tugging Geralt by the hand and scurrying back to the house. “Then you won’t mind using the oils we have.” He gets them inside without anyone seeing them or paying them much attention, and sits Geralt down in their bathroom. Jaskier spends the next half hour anointing Geralt with the oils he himself had used that morning. He then combs Geralt’s hair back, grabs a leather band, and braids the man’s hair away from his face. He starts at the top of Geralt’s head and moves down, the braid tight against Geralt’s scalp. He goes silent, too intent on not messing up Geralt’s hair. Jaskier collects more and more hair as he goes, until all that white hair is out of Geralt’s face and Jaskier has reached the nape of Geralt’s neck. Then he ties it off, leaving the rest of the hair unbraided. 

“Hmm.” Geralt runs his fingers over his head. 

“Sorry, I just fussed over you like my mother would one of the children,” Jaskier blathers, smoothing down a flyaway hair. Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand in his. 

“I don’t mind,” Geralt says, “when it’s you fussing over me. It’s… nice.” He speaks low and gruff. Jaskier wonders if he’s hearing things, but his hand is still in Geralt’s. 

“It’s nice,” Jaskier repeats back, like one of those exotic birds that have learned Common Speech. 

Geralt turns his head up, leaning back to do so, and looks Jaskier in the eyes as he says, “Yes. It’s nice.”

And because he is in a perfect position to do so, Jaskier responds by leaning down and planting a gentle kiss on Geralt’s forehead. Which is stupid. Because he just _kissed_ _Geralt’s forehead_. 

“Uh.” Jaskier stares back at those eyes that haven’t even  _ blinked _ . “Geralt-”

“Are you ready?” Geralt says instead, standing up and brushing off his pants. As though that  _ didn’t _ happen. Alright. Jaskier could work with that.

“I’m set,” Jaskier responds, pulling a few of Geralt’s hairs from his fingers. “Ta-da!” Geralt squints at him and grabs the bottle of cedarwood and sage oil Jaskier had used on him. He unstoppers it and covers the lip with his thumb, pouring it to the side to get just a bit of oil on the pad of his thumb. Then he drags that thumb down the short distance from the hollow of Jaskier’s throat to the divot of his clavicle. Geralt wipes the excess oil right over the pulse point in Jaskier’s neck and Jaskier is  _ sure _ the man can feel his pulse positively pounding as though Jaskier has run a mile in a minute. Jaskier can’t even swallow past the dryness in his throat. 

Why can he never be smooth and suave around this man? Where does all his talent go?

“There,” Geralt says, leaning his head down a bit to  _ smell Jaskier’s neck _ \- gods what is going  _ on?  _ “Now you smell like me. As is the custom?”

“As-as is the custom,” Jaskier responds. “Geralt,” he starts to ask. 

“Yes?” Geralt murmurs, right there, against the skin of Jaskier’s throat.  _ What the fuck _ . 

“Don’t want to be late,” Jaskier finishes lamely. There’s something like mirth in Geralt’s eyes when he pulls back and Jaskier finds  _ that _ very interesting. Geralt flashes a toothy smile. 

“No, we wouldn’t want to be late.”

* * *

“I thought you were going to be late!” Ciri crows when they come down. She throws herself against Geralt’s legs and looks up at him. “You smell nice.”

“Thank you,” Geralt responds, a hand on her head. “The braid is holding up?”

“Yes, the pins you used work well.” Ciri squints up at him. “Who did your hair?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s eyes flick to him, flashing. His mouth tilts up. 

“Why don’t you ever do my hair?” Ciri asks, tugging on Jaskier’s hand. 

“Because bratty little girls get their hair done by big, scary witchers,” Jaskier teases with a smile. “We should find my-”

“Oh, there you three are, wonderful!” Jaskier’s mother shrieks. At this point, Jaskier estimates that the wedding should start in an hour and a half, which leaves only an hour to gather everyone, make sure Hedwig is ready, and then greet the arriving guests. “Geralt, there’s been a mishap in the garden and we can’t reach one of the decorations. Ciri, be a darling and help Zefiryna and Marcek with the little ones, there’s a dear. And Julian, check on your sisters.” She bustles off, dragging Geralt with her. Ciri sighs and goes to find Zefiryna. And Jaskier runs back upstairs and stops in front of his sister’s door. 

“Hello?” 

“Come in!” Waleska yells out. He enters to find Waleska finishing with Hedwig’s hair, the dark locks pinned to the side of her head, flowers woven into the braids down her back. Jaskier grabs the band with the veil attached and hands it to Waleska, who carefully places it on Hedwig’s head, the little toothed edges anchored against her scalp. “There.”

“You look lovely,” Jaskier tells her. “The harpy sent me to check on you two.”

“Mother must relax. We have a whole hour before we need to prepare to move,” Waleska says. “Hedi, darling. How are you feeling?”

“Excited!” Hedwig says. “Nervous,” she admits afterward. Her dress is ivory with a pale pink blush in tule under the skirt. The silk has cut outs of lace all through it, sparkles shimmering along the fabric of the dress. Waleska has been very careful with Hedwig’s face paint as well, just a light peach dusting on her eyelids, the palest rouge on her cheeks, and something glossy and pink on her lips. 

“I was nervous too,” Waleska says. “Oh, though that was  _ so _ long ago. Almost twenty years! Can you imagine, two decades and five children later.”

“You’re still happy?” Hedwig asks, a bit concerned. 

“Of course,” Waleska says. “Sometimes I want to smack all of them a good few times ‘round the head, but I do love them all so. Dietrich is a wonderful partner in all aspects.”

“And you, Jaskier? Were you nervous?” Hedwig asks him, making eye contact in the mirror she sits in front of. 

Jaskier tries to imagine  _ actually _ marrying Geralt. During the winter in Kaer Morhen, when everyone is present, amid the cold stone but warm by a fire in the great hall, maybe Vesemir presiding. Jaskier  _ would _ be nervous, but yes, excited. Bloody excited to start a life with the man. 

“I was too,” he lies, kissing the top of her head. “And I didn’t look nearly as good as you.” She laughs at him, which is better than her worried eyes and twisted mouth. 

“Well, that’s it. The last of us to be married,” Waleska says, joining Jaskier in the mirror, with Hedwig sitting in front of them. “Last to have children now too. Goodness, Julek, I didn’t think you’d be so far ahead of her and close behind me.”

“I’m still the youngest!” Jaskier exclaims. They both laugh at him. “Let’s get your shoes on and fix any little thing left. Then I’ll run across the hall and check on Lorrie, shall I?” 

“Oh, yes, please do!” Hedwig grabs his hands. “Tell her I love her, yes?”

“Aren’t you going to tell her that yourself, again, in less than two hours time?” Jaskier asks. Hedwig frowns at him. “Fine, fine, yes, I’ll tell her.” He and Waleska each take a slipper and slide them onto Hedwig’s feet, fastening their ties around her ankles. Then Waleska checks over Hedwig’s dress, her hair, her face paint. Jaskier rolls his eyes and runs out and across the hall to Waleska’s room. He knocks on the door. “May I enter?”

“You may,” Lorenia calls out. He walks in and closes the door behind him. Lorenia, an only child, sits at the vanity mirror on the other side of the room. Her hair is already done and she just dabs at the rouge on her cheeks. “Waleska made me up earlier,” she explains as Jaskier comes over. “Did my hair as well, while your mother was helping Hedi with her dress.”

“Speaking of my sister, she sends her love.”

“Oh my heart, just what I needed to hear right now.” 

“How are you feeling?”

“Absolutely nerved,” Lorenia admits. She puts her brush down, pokes at a tube of lipstick but doesn’t pick it up. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says, hands on her shoulders. He squeezes. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Of course,” she murmurs. 

“What, second thoughts?” he teases. “Want to run away with me?” Lorenia snorts. 

“With you? No. With Hedi, yes. I wish we didn’t come from such prominent families, that she wasn’t second born and I, an only child. I wish we could get married quietly, with a small gathering and be done with it. Like you. What did you and your Geralt do? I can’t imagine a witcher in frills - is he in frills today?”

“No, he is not,” Jaskier says. “And we…”

“Well, where did you wed? Do you not remember?” She turns, a little glare scrunching up her face. Dark freckles have broken out against her brown skin from being out in the sun all through the week. 

“Kaer Moran,” Jaskier blurts. “The old witcher stronghold. His… mentor, I guess, did the ceremony.” Oh god, he hasn’t even  _ met _ Vesemir and here he is, painting the man into his fake wedding. 

“Oh. That’s it? Just you three?”

Hadn’t Geralt said there were a few other witchers still left? Jaskier struggles to remember their names, but brightens when he does.

“No, there were a few witchers there. Um. Eskel, Lambert, and Coën. They were there. And Ciri,” he adds. “But yes. That’s it.” 

“Not even the sorceress, Lady Yennefer?”

_ “Absolutely not,” _ Jaskier says. He just couldn’t imagine Yennefer at his wedding without making a mess of things. 

“Her dress is divine, by the by, did you see it?” Lorenia sighs. “She’s going to outshine me. I see why you didn’t want her at your wedding.”

“Outshine you but not my sister?”

“No one can outshine Hedwig,” Lorenia scoffs, insulted by the mere thought. Jaskier smiles and kisses her cheek. “Oh come off it.”

“No one is outshining anyone,” Jaskier says. Lorenia does look quite lovely. Her dress is satin, the same ivory color as Hedwig’s but with a sheer skirt thrown over tinted in mint-green. Her hair is in a bun at the top of her head, ringlets springing out from it. She’s wearing the silver locket Hedwig gave her for their engagement. Embedded in the front is an emerald. Inside, Jaskier knows, is a miniature portrait of Hedwig painted onto one side, while the other holds a lock of Hedwig’s hair. Lorenia touches it and closes her eyes. 

“By the end of tonight, we’ll be family,” she says. Jaskier laughs and throws his arms around her.

“We already are.”

* * *

The wedding itself is lovely.

Lorenia isn’t entirely wrong about Yennefer, either. A fair few eyes lock onto her and don’t move off as she stands at the front of the seating area with the priestess who is presiding over the ceremony and Lorenia. On one side at the front sit Jaskier and his family. Geralt is to his left, Ciri to his right with Zefiryna sitting beside her and the rest of Waleska’s family. On the other side of the aisle at the front, sit Lorenia’s family. Behind the rest of them, the extended family and friends of both sides sit in rows, murmuring to each other.

Then, down the aisle comes Hedwig and their father, some little enchantment courtesy of Yennefer pushing Hedwig’s chair so their father can walk by her side holding her hand. Jaskier has to admit, his favorite part so far has been watching Hedwig’s and Lorenia’s faces light up at the side of each other. His father kisses Hedwig’s cheek after pulling back her veil, and then sits down by Jaskier’s mother, wiping at his eyes with a handkerchief. The two women face each other and say their vows, and as they speak, Jaskier feels his eyes watering, his vision blurring. He’d been too young to care about what was said at Waleska’s wedding, but this….

He grips at Geralt’s hand, and Geralt lets him. 

When it comes time to do the blessing, right after the women exchange rings, Yennefer steps forward, a stoppered up potion bottle in her hands. She raises it above her head, the straps of her indigo dress sliding down her shoulders. The dress flares out as it hits the ground, making her look ethereal. Then she smashes the bottle at their feet, whispering words that make the smoke rising from the shards shimmer. 

“It is done,” Yennefer claims, stepping back. There is a slight haze around them for a moment, the blessing taking hold. Jaskier wonders how long it will last, this little charm, but he knows his sister and friend won’t really need it. They have each other, and that’s always been enough. 

The brides grin and lean forward to kiss. Hedwig is smiling so hard her face might crack and it looks like her cheeks are beginning to ache, but she throws herself forward and kisses Lorenia full on the mouth, laughing and crying. Lorenia hauls Hedwig up, halfway out of her chair, in her enthusiasm. They never stop kissing in the midst of it all, laughing and smiling and kissing each other all over the face. 

Jaskier is the first to stand and clap. Geralt stands up with him. 

Then the rest are rising and shouting, cheering and laughing. Lorenia lowers Hedwig back into her chair and continues to kiss her, on her knees for the woman she loves and is now finally tied to.

People start moving to the gardens for the feast, allowing the brides to escape inside and change into more comfortable clothes. Beside him, Geralt is nodding to people who stop and stare. Already halfway down the aisle, running inside as well, is Ciri, holding onto Yennefer’s hand. She waves to Jaskier when he finally catches sight of her. 

He hears, right by his ear in Yennefer’s voice,  _ I have a jumpsuit for her to run around in so she isn’t hemmed in by a dress all night. _ He nods and gets a smile from her in return. She’s pointing behind him. He turns. 

Geralt is standing awkwardly now, hunched in on himself. 

“Can we go?” he asks, nodding to the feast side of the gardens. Most people have retired there. Even his family have left them behind. 

“Of course,” Jaskier says. He has to lead the first song soon, anyway. They make their way to the family table, his parents and Waleska already set up with the children and Dietrich. “I have a song to prepare for,” Jaskier says, leaning down to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Keep Geralt some company, would you? He gets terribly lonely without me.” Jaskier grins at Geralt’s eyeroll, then runs back into the manor to grab his lute. He meets up with Yennefer and Ciri on the stairs going back down, Yennefer still in her indigo dress and Ciri in a lilac one piece jumpsuit that she can run around in to her heart’s content. Ciri links her hand with his as they walk out, swinging their arms, running her mouth a mile a minute about how Yennefer’s magic made her lips buzz and fingers tingle, and how it looked like Marcek was falling asleep halfway through the nuptials. Yennefer winks at him over Ciri’s head, a content grin on her face.

Once they’re all back in the garden, Yennefer and Ciri sit by Geralt while Jaskier jumps on the stage to do what he does best. He’s so at home up here, directing musicians, passing out copies of the music they’ll be playing with him for the night. He’s not met the troupe before, but they’ve heard of him and all shower him with praise and words of excitement as he sets up with them The moment he sees Lorenia pushing Hedwig into the garden, he cues the troupe. They start playing as the two women make their way in, blushing. He takes up the main part with his lute and sings. 

“Love and some verses you hear   
say what you can't say.   
Love to say this in your ear,   
'I'll love you that way!’’’

Their audience claps in congratulations as the women make their way to the table at the head of the garden, right in front of the stage Jaskier is on.

“From your changing contentments,   
what will you choose for to share?   
Someday drawing you different,   
may I be weaved in your hair?”

He breaks off into the rest of the instrumentals, giving them some time to settle as the servants begin bringing out food and lining tables. Once Hedwig nods to him he brings the song to an end and officially opens the feast. 

“Thank you, ladies, gentlemen, and all others, for joining us on this lovely evening to celebrate the union of Countess Lorenia de Lucrezia to Viscountess Hedwig Amalia Pankratz  _ de Lucrezia!”  _ There’s another round of applause to his sister’s new surname, just for the way he’s put so much emphasis on it. “The Pankratz and de Lucrezia families thank you and wish you a happy feast. Onward, then!” Jaskier plays another quick number with the musicians and then leaves them to their own devices for a while. He sits by Geralt and gladly takes the plate of food the other man offers. Everyone is speaking and taking turns visiting the newlyweds. But Jaskier is already feeling a bit tired. This is the end, the home stretch. It’ll all be over tomorrow. And that’s what’s making him feel so exhausted. 

“Alright?” Geralt asks him, low and by his ear. Jaskier half turns. 

“Yes. I’ll be fine. I’m going to have to go up there a few times to sing. Brace yourself,” he teases.

“I think I’ll live,” Geralt mutters. Ciri finishes her food and rushes off to the mob of children in the fields playing a massive game with the lone ball they were able to find in the room where Tanek and Marcek are staying. 

“I’ve got an eye on her,” Yennefer says, moving into Ciri’s seat to sit right by Jaskier. He’s the only thing separating her and Geralt right now. Well, him and their miles of issues. 

“Oh, just the one?” Jaskier asks. “And the other eye?”

“There are just  _ so _ many fine faces here, haven’t you noticed?” she murmurs. 

“No, I have not,” Jaskier tells her around a mouth full of rice. 

“I didn’t think so.” 

“So flippant.”

“Always.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks. He’s looking at the line of twine above their heads. A frown mars his face. 

“Yes?” Jaskier turns to him, a bit annoyed he didn’t get the last word in with Yennefer. She’s probably basking in it right now. 

“I helped your mother put up the decorations, but I never asked why they were what they were,” Geralt says slowly. “There’s a bunch of grapes and tinsel. Above our heads.” He looks back down at Jaskier. “Why?

“There’s  _ what?” _ Jaskier snaps, looking up. He looks across the table at his mother where she’s grinning mischievously and can barely mouth,  _ Please don’t, _ before she’s hitting the side of her champagne flute with her fork. All around her, people pick up the knocking. There are groans throughout the garden as people look up and realize they too are under a bunch of grapes and tinsel, much like Geralt and Jaskier are. At the front, there are several above Hedwig’s and Lorenia’s heads. They laugh and lean in to kiss each other. “Oh gods-”

“It’s a wedding game, Geralt,” Yennefer says, leaning around Jaskier to talk to the man in question. “When the host taps a glass, all those under the grapes share a kiss, like the newly weds just did.” She stops and looks around. “Like many are.”

“Hmm.” 

“We can ignore that,” Jaskier whispers heatedly, because Geralt’s eyes are back on the bunch of grapes. He knows his mother will keep doing this throughout the night until she sees them kiss. Heavens know  _ why _ . 

But then there’s a hand on his face, and Jaskier looks up at Geralt with barely a moment to panic as Geralt’s mouth presses against his. His lips are chapped but gentle and Jaskier thinks he’s going to vomit with how fast his heart is pounding. Jaskier can  _ hear _ those beats echoing in his ears. Geralt uses his free hand to drag Jaskier’s chair closer, sliding his lips and licking his tongue against the seam of Jaskiers mouth. Geralt begins to pull away. 

“Is that alright?” he asks, voice husky and low. Every hair on Jaskier’s arms stands to attention. A shiver runs down his spine. And he remembers, at the start of all this, each of them giving the other free reign with physical displays of affection. 

Well, if they were just  _ going  _ for it now….

Jaskier leans in again, bites at Geralt’s lips, and sucks the man’s tongue into his mouth. Geralt gasps but hooks their ankles together, pulling Jaskier closer. Jaskier has his hands fisted in Geralt’s doublet. Oh gods what the hell is he  _ doing? _ Jaskier pulls back, opening his eyes to see that Geralt’s are still closed and he had followed Jaskier’s mouth with his own once parted. Geralt’s eyes flutter open, and the incessant tapping stops as people roar with applause at the first kisses of the night. A few people are eyeing them, the viscount and his hulking witcher spouse participating in the wedding games like the rest of them. But no one says anything and no one would dare. 

“Uh, sorry, that’s a - a thing,” Jaskier says. There’s a lump in his throat as Geralt swipes at Jaskier’s mouth with a thumb, tracing their wet, swollen shape. Jaskier is a stupid man, so he kisses Geralt’s thumb, because it’s still near his mouth, alright? And Geralt tastes like mint and spit and whatever wine he had just finished swallowing before all of this. 

“Indeed,” Geralt murmurs. And then, though there is no more tapping of the glass, he leans down and kisses Jaskier again. Jaskier pulls away, eyes wide, muttering something about the next set of songs, and he dashes off to the stage to wait out the last piece for his turn. 

_ What the hell, what the fuck, what the actual hell is going on, am I dying? _

Jaskier makes a show of stopping by his sister and teasing her, though there is something in her face that tells him she  _ knows _ he’s panicked. He waves off Lorenia’s concern as well, plays up that he’s drunk too much already, though he hasn’t touched a drop, and launches himself onto the stage the moment the troupe concludes the song. 

“Who has missed me?” he calls to their guests. There are many hoots and hollers, but when he looks over to the family table, Yennefer is waving her hands in Geralt’s face and he looks a bit pained. That’s fine. That’s fine, Jaskier convinces himself as he holds up three fingers to the troupe. They flick over to the third sheet of music he gave them and prepare themselves. He nods, they nod, and he starts. “Let’s get people dancing!” Jaskier crows and some start to move to the floor already as he goes, 

“And in the middle of the night, I may watch you go   
There’ll be no value in the strength of walls that I have grown.   
There’ll be no comfort in the shade of the shadows thrown…”

His eyes want to flick to Geralt, but he can’t - no he  _ won’t _ allow himself. The rest of the band joins him on the next words. 

“But I’d be yours, if you’d be mine!”

And his eyes go to Geralt anyway.

At least Geralt is staring too. And when their gazes lock, Geralt’s eyes widen a smidge. 

The song picks up speed, a moving love ballad that has Lorenia wheeling Hedwig onto the dance floor with the rest of their guests, pushing her in circles, spinning her around. Jaskier belts the chorus and closes his eyes, the band falling softly into silence behind him. My, his parents picked  _ professional  _ professionals. The band starts picking up, everyone taking up the jig as fast as they can. There are whoops and hollers, even his parents are dancing. Yennefer seems far too delighted as she looks on. The children are running around as the music plays. Jaskier’s fingers hurt as he plays and jumps back in to sing the last chorus. 

“So love the one you hold, and I will be your goal,   
To have and to hold - a lover of the light!” 

Someone on the violin peters off, the last to stop, playing the solo he wrote  _ perfectly. _ Jaskier’s heart squeezes at the exquisite sound. Sometimes, he does have a stroke of genius, he will admit. 

He bows, and encourages the players to as well, when the applause comes. 

“We thank you so very much. This next one is for the de Lucrezia family. Now, mind you, I’ve been practising their native tongue, so no poking fun at my accent.” He turns to the company, holds up five fingers, and lets them get prepared. “Don’t worry, I’ll start in common speech, but this is a welcome of my family to yours, as we are now united.” He bows his head to Lorenia’s family who honor them with their own round of applause. Of course, he took their language as an elective while at Oxenfurt, so he speaks it fluently, but no one else needs to know that. 

“And so it is - just like you said it would be.   
Life goes easy on me   
Most - of the time.” 

He plays and sings the chorus before switching languages. He delights in how smooth the transition was, how their guests smile in pleasure, pure joy in the de Lucrezia family’s eyes. 

“É isso aí   
Um vendedor de flores   
Ensinar seus filhos   
A escolher seus amores...

Eu não sai para de te olhar!” 

Lorenia whistles shrilly at him, pumping her fist in the air, even as Hedwig smothers a giggle, already pink in the face with drink, and tells her to stop. But they both know this is a love song, about not being able to take your eyes off of the one you love. They both demonstrate this, staring into one another’s eyes as Jaskier croons. He sneaks a glance while doing a broad sweep of the gardens and is pleased to see Geralt’s eyes still on him. Yennefer is no longer sitting next to him, but is instead, with a younger man, a count Jaskier thinks, practically in the man’s lap even though there’s a very pretty lady by his side glaring daggers at the sorceress. 

Jaskier finishes the song and says his thanks in the same language, welcoming the de Lucrezia’s to the family once again. He knows they’re beyond flattered, and winks at his mother when he catches her eye.  _ You’re welcome _ , he wants to say, but not in front of all the guests. No one else needs to know how petty he is. 

“Another reel, I think,” he says to the troupe. He holds up his index finger and they flip back. It’s a fast one that starts slow and picks up. He begins it with them and waits until they all get into the swing of it to make his excuses. He slips off the stage, eyes searching for Ciri, just to check on her, just an excuse not to have to go to Geralt already. She’s at the fountain in the back now, splashing in the icy water with the other children. The rest of them are shrieking as they get hit with water, but Ciri’s lips are pressed into a smile as she goes. Jaskier wishes she were able to be as vocal as the others, but she doesn’t seem to mind too much. 

She runs up to him as he comes over, throwing her wet arms around him. 

“Oh, well, thanks for that,” he sighs, hugging her back despite her wetness. 

“I saw you and Geralt,” she whispers. Jaskier stands there, unsure what to say. 

“It’s a wedding game,” he tries.

“Was it still a wedding game  _ after _ the cup-hitting stopped?” she asks, hands on her hips. He knows she’s being serious, but it’s hard to take her seriously while she’s dripping water and staring at him like that. 

“Well, that wasn’t me!” Jaskier insists, feeling foolish. What is he defending himself for? Ciri hadn’t accused him of anything. Yet. 

“Exactly,” she says, as though that should make sense and answer all his questions. It doesn’t. 

“...right, you’ve spent too much time with Yennefer. I see that now.”

“I’m serious. Think about it!” 

“I am trying not to,” Jaskier admits. 

“You don’t like him?” she says, voice fragile. 

“What?” Jaskier goes down to his knees in front of her, taking her pale face in his hands. He kisses her forehead. When he pulls back he sighs. “Oh, Cirilla. It’s not about whether  _ I _ like him or not. It’s about… it’s about  _ him, _ too.”

“I know that.” She’s pouting. 

“Right, okay,” Jaskier sighs again. He gets back up with a groan and pop of his knees, ignoring her laughs at him, and waves to her as she scampers back into the fountain. At least she’ll sleep soundly tonight. 

And of course, now there’s nothing left to it than to return to his seat. He’s done most of his songs for the night. The troupe can handle the rest, just reels and jigs to keep the guests entertained until they head home. Jaskier wonders how long he can disappear before  _ someone _ notices he’s been gone too long and goes looking for him. He sits at a back table, far from the crowds with no one else at it, just remnants of food and a bottle of wine left. He pulls the stopper out with his teeth and takes a swig. 

The music goes on and he’s left in peace for a while. At some point, he can tell the party is dying down. How long has it been? Hours, he thinks, as the sun has already set and torches are being lit. How long will this blasted thing continue? He wants to be in bed already, lamenting his last day as Mr. Witcher. He takes off his faux wedding band and spins it like a top on the table, humming under his breath along with the music. The wine is too much for him right now, so he leaves it be.

Someone pulls out the chair next to him. 

Jaskier looks up and sighs in relief at the sight of Granny. Sure, she’d been less than tactful yesterday, but she had  _ also _ just finished embarrassing both Hedwig and Lorenia during a little impromptu speech so he forgives her. She settles beside him, a plate of dessert in her hands, and raises an eyebrow at his spinning ring. 

“Have more care with something so important,” she chastises. With the flat of her palm, she smacks the ring to the table, stopping its twirls. Jaskier sighs. He lets her pick up the ring and examine it. He doesn’t expect her fond chuckle. 

“What?” he asks, trying not to be huffy. It’s not her fault he’s in a mood. 

“Your witcher may have everyone else fooled with his cool exterior, but not I, oh no,” she says, pointing to the inside of Jaskier’s ring, where those old runes he can’t rightly read are engraved. She clears her throat, clearly meaning to embarrass him by reading them aloud -  _ she thinks Jaskier knows what it says.  _ “‘To my singing heart - the one who makes my heart sing,’” Granny says. She grins. “Clever, isn’t it, grandson?” 

“Because I’m a bard,” Jaskier murmurs, eyes wide. “I make his heart sing.”

“But you are  _ also  _ his dearest, lovely heart - that sings,” his grandmother continues, clearly enjoying the back and forth. “I thought I’d get a cringe out of you, but it seems you’re just as smitten as he is.”

“Smitten…” Jaskier trails off. This doesn’t make sense. Why would Geralt etch those words there if Jaskier couldn’t read them? What’s the point? Unless… well, unless Geralt has felt that way all this time and didn’t know how to say it, so he just…  _ took  _ the opportunity to be around Jaskier in this capacity, as Jaskier has taken the opportunity. 

But that would mean that Geralt is in love with him. 

“No. No, no, no, I couldn’t have missed  _ that _ ,” Jaskier mutters under his breath as his grandmother looks at him strangely. Except. Geralt  _ offered _ to be his husband. He  _ made _ them rings. He’s been  _ touching  _ Jaskier when no one is around to put on a show for. He’s been carrying Jaskier to bed, giving Jaskier his shirt when Jaskier’s been sick all over his own. Geralt had kissed him when the glasses stopped clinking. He wanted to  _ talk _ after all of this, and Jaskier had thought it was to discuss Jaskier’s blatant lovestruck behavior, but maybe not. Maybe… maybe he wanted to discuss  _ them? _

Jaskier is Geralt’s singing heart, the one that makes Geralt’s heart sing. 

But then, how? And what about Yennefer? Yes, maybe they had put their relationship aside, and maybe it wasn’t forever. As Yennefer said, one day, Jaskier will die. But still.

“Excuse me,” he says to Granny, taking back his ring. He scans the crowd, careful to avoid where he last saw Geralt, and finds Yennefer in someone else’s lap, those hands disappearing under her dress. Jaskier rolls his eyes and jogs over, moving past the crushing bodies of party-goers writhing on the stone courtyard that serves as their dancefloor as the troupe continues to play another jig. He taps Yennefer’s shoulder, ignoring the grumble from the man she’s sitting on. “A word?” Yennefer smiles, sensing something in the way he’s holding himself, and stands. Jaskier pretends he doesn’t hear a squelch as she rises and decides not to think about it too much. 

She drags him over under a tree where the torches barely light their faces, and says, “Yes?”

“Is Geralt in love with me?” Jaskier blurts, gripping her hands so hard his own fingers hurt. 

She’s silent for a moment, and then: “Why, did he say something? Finally?”

“What? No!” Jaskier yips. “No! Granny tried to embarrass me by reading the inscription on my wedding ring, except I didn’t know what it said! And now that I do....” He shakes his head. “I’m confused. Why me?”

“Why him?” she counters. “For the same reasons, I presume. You say he feels like home. He is sure that you feel like what home is supposed to.” She shrugs, something cold in her eyes melting away. “Oh, Jaskier. I don’t care what you do. Confront him or don’t. I’ve done all I can for you two. I can’t force it.” She rustles her skirts and turns to go. 

“Will it hurt you if he does love me?” Jaskier asks her retreating back. 

“Will that stop you two?” she says without turning. 

“It won’t stop me,” Jaskier tells her. He doesn’t know about Geralt. 

“Then I’m just glad that he has  _ someone _ who can choose him like I haven’t been able to.” With that, Yennefer goes, making her way back to the merriment. 

Jaskier stands in the dark. Disbelieving. But if it were true, oh if it were true… He can’t imagine being happier. But it would be such a risk, wouldn’t it? Then again, maybe not. Jaskier isn’t a fool, though his mother is right - he can be foolish. Everything seems to be pointing to Geralt having some sort of feelings for him. Things make sense if that’s the explanation one goes with, it’s just that Jaskier hadn’t even  _ considered _ that. 

And Jaskier has said such awful things to Geralt as of late!

Although, he could test it. 

He waits. 

* * *

Come midnight, most of the guests have headed home. Jaskier finds Ciri asleep in Geralt’s arms when he finally creeps out from under the tree Yennefer had taken him under. Geralt is still at the family table, though he’s the only one. Granny has since retired to her suite. Dietrich, with Tanek’s help, has put the little ones to bed. Waleska is at the front table with Jaskier’s and Lorenia’s parents, all giving final wishes of welcome and love to the newlyweds. The servants are picking up around the courtyard and gardens, dodging the straggling guests here and there. It’s mostly just family left. Yennefer had disappeared and come back, several times with several different people. Jaskier wonders how she has the stamina for it, feels briefly jealous, and settles on magic being her helper. 

It’s when he notices the troupe packing up that he makes his way over to the front table. 

“Julian!” his mother exclaims. “We’ve been wondering where you were. Not even your husband knew!” She says  _ husband  _ so much easier now and Jaskier is glad of it. 

“I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to be a bother to anyone,” Jaskier lies. “Ciri was having such fun, and we can’t always rely on Lady Yennefer to mind her, so at least Geralt could watch her while I had a lie down.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Hedwig says with a frown. “Was it all the performing? Thank you for that, you were lovely, by the way.” One of her hands is still clutched in Lorenia’s. Jaskier doesn’t think they’ve let each other go the whole night - just as it should be. 

Jaskier waves off her concern, pulls up a chair. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him, settling Ciri on his lap so she’s more comfortable where her head lolls against his shoulder. He’s just a table away. Jaskier gathers his lute up, tunes it though he knows it’s not necessary. He’s just stalling now, fiddling. 

“One last song?” Lorenia asks, voice hopeful. “Close us up for the night. Anything you want to play, we’ll listen.” Her parents pull up chairs, and Jaskier’s do the same. Waleska goes back to the family table to get one for herself and urges Geralt to carry a sleeping Ciri with him over to their little circle. Jaskier tries not to let the shaking of his hands show as Geralt sits in the chair Waleska lays out for him, cradling Ciri close. Their eyes meet, but Geralt doesn’t say a word. 

“What to play?” he pretends to ponder. “Ah, yes, this will do nicely.” His eyes flick back to Geralt, and then to the fretboard of his lute. “At least my husband will know this one. And, if you’ll allow me to be sentimental, I dedicate it to him.” Hedwig coos in delight. Jaskier fingerpicks a bit, a simple tune that has his father’s and in-laws’ heads nodding to the beat. Geralt’s brow scrunches.

“Well, it's a long way out to reach the sea.   
But I'm sure I'll find you waiting there for me.   
And by the time I blink, I'll see your wild arms swinging,   
Just to meet me in the middle of the road.   
And you'll hold me like you'll never let me go.   
And beside the salty water, I could hold you close,   
_ But you are far too beautiful to love me.” _

Geralt’s eyes go so wide in recognition at the line. Something in Jaskier’s chest clenches. Beside them, where the troupe is packing up, one or two catch onto the last vestiges of music. The young woman on a drum taps out a gentle beat that matches the song. The man next to her adds a clap and snap that picks up the tempo. Jaskier can’t stop the smile that comes to his face. He sings right to Geralt now, leaving shame behind him. 

“Well, it's a long climb up the dusty mountain   
To build a turret tall enough to keep you out.   
But when you wage your wars against the one who adores you,   
Then you'll never know the treasure that you're worth.”

Geralt’s mouth turns down a bit, but lifts at the next few lines.

“But I've never been a wealthy one before.   
I've got holes in my pockets burned by liars' gold,   
And I think I'm far too poor for you to want me.”

Jaskier shrugs at this, his meager audience chuckling. He breaks off into a purely music measure, whistling the main melody as he goes. He switches to vocalization, a chorus coming up from beside him in perfect harmony. The troupe has ceased their packing and have joined in for the fun of it. Jaskier turns his head, still playing, delight in the laugh that bursts forth from his mouth. Whether they know it or not, these lovely people are helping him declare his love in a song. He owes them for that. 

Jaskier swallows hard, nerves building as he winds down the vocalizations and gets ready to jump into the last part. The part that has all the truth in it, the truth about them and who they are, apart and together. It’s how he feels, every time he walks away from Geralt or has to watch the man turn his back to him. It’s how he feels every time he tells himself that Geralt could never feel for him and that Jaskier  _ should _ never feel for Geralt. 

“It's been a long road, losing all I've owned,   
And you don't know what you've got until you're gone.”

Geralt’s mouth twists in a grimace at that. Jaskier smiles softly and continues.

“And it's a nasty habit, spending all you have, but   
When you're doing all the leaving, then it's never your love lost.”

Jaskier swallows hard. Geralt flinches.

“And if you leave before the start, then there was never love at all.”

_ Don’t leave me, _ Jaskier thinks, looking into Geralt’s golden eyes, shining with  _ something _ in them.  _ Please don’t ever leave me again. _

“And heaven knows I'm prone to leave the only god I should have loved....”

He peters off, the drumming and clapping and harmonizing behind him dissipating as well.  _ If you don’t leave me _ , Jaskier thinks,  _ then I will never again leave you. _ His and Geralt’s eyes meet.

“And yet you're far too beautiful to leave me,” Jaskier sings softly to Geralt, gently fingerpicking as he goes. The song comes to an end, and Jaskier is still only looking at Geralt. Despite all the eyes on him, Geralt is only staring back at Jaskier. 

“Lovely!” Jaskier’s mother breaks in, her shrill cry turning into a yawn. “Oh, absolutely lovely. But, I think little Ciri has the right idea. To bed with us!” She turns to Hedwig and Lorenia as the rest of them rise and leave the chairs for the servants to handle. “In the morning you two will be off to the coast.”

“Yes, in the  _ opposite _ direction of where Nilfgaard has settled, thankfully,” Lorenia mutters. She stands and pushes Hedwig inside, waving their goodnights. Jaskier watches them go, watches his parents go, and then walks over to Geralt. 

“That was the song,” Geralt says, voice low. He has Ciri in his arms, her little head on his shoulder spilling blonde hair down his back. Jaskier caresses Geralt’s face simply because he feels like right now, he can. 

“That was  _ your _ song,” Jaskier corrects. He swallows hard, so nervous he could puke. But Geralt doesn’t react badly. If anything, his eyes go soft, the lines of his face smooth out. One of his arms supports Ciri under her bottom while the other has a hand braced to her back, cradling her to Geralt’s chest. Since he can’t reach out to Jaskier, Geralt leans in, just presses their foreheads together and lets his eyes flutter closed. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat and he presses closer. 

“We need to talk,” Geralt says, an echo of his words in the stables that afternoon. He sounds less pained now than he was then. 

“Agreed,” Jaskier responds. “But first, let’s get her to bed?” 

Geralt chuckles and pulls away. Jaskier wants him closer. 

They finally head inside, walking slowly up to Ciri’s room. Yennefer opens the door, as though expecting them, and leads them in. She only lets Geralt get as far as putting Ciri down on her bed before she’s shooing them both out, insisting she can change Ciri and get her comfortable. Her eyes flash in the lowlight of the fire in Ciri’s room, more lavender than violet in the late hour. 

They obey. 

In the hall, Geralt looks back at Ciri’s door and sighs. He shakes his head and nods to the staircase. Jaskier follows him, his heart in his throat as they go up the opposite staircase, down the hall, up the last staircase, into their suite. Geralt doesn’t stop in the parlor, goes straight for their shared chambers. Jaskier stops just outside the door. This will make or break them, he thinks. 

He enters. 

Geralt is lighting a fire with a Sign, his fingers all crooked in odd positions to make Igni. Jaskier feels the ripple of magic when Geralt thrusts his hand forward into the fireplace, the wood igniting with a burst. The air smells burnt. When Geralt rises, he doesn’t turn, just stands staring at the flames he created while the fire silhouettes him. Someone needs to start, needs to say something. 

“Look, Geralt,” Jaskier sighs. “I’ve got to be honest with you, through this whole thing, I-”

“I heard you and Yennefer speaking the other night,” Geralt says, cutting him off. Jaskier feels as though the floor has been pulled from under him. What? The other night - how vague. Which other night?  _ That _ night?

“Pardon?” Jaskier chokes out. Geralt is still staring at the fire. Jaskier has never looked so earnestly at a back before. “Which - which night?”

“The night we fought,” Geralt clarifies, much to Jaskier’s absolute  _ horror _ . Oh no.  _ That _ night. Oh gods, they do so detest and test Jaskier. He’s going to have to run away from here now, dye his hair, change his name. Better yet, he wonders if Yennefer has a spell that will change how his face looks. That way, Geralt will never be able to recognize him ever again and Jaskier will be able to run away properly and never be found. “Jaskier?”

“Oh no,” Jaskier murmurs faintly. “Geralt, I - I can…” What, explain? Jaskier doesn’t have to explain, he’s already explained.  _ That night _ he explained, and Geralt  _ heard it all _ . So then why had Geralt gone along with it all? Is he really in love with Jaskier or…? But the  _ ring _ . 

Geralt finally turns to him and takes the few steps forward to reach him. When Geralt reaches out and takes Jaskier’s face in his hands, those palms are so warm from standing before the fire. Jaskier can’t bask in it though, there are too many implications flitting through his head. 

“Stop thinking and listen, for once,” Geralt says and Jaskier valiantly tries to do so. “I heard you, I heard what you said. About me. About how you feel for me.” Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. This is far more mortifying than he thought it would be. “How you chose me,” Geralt continues. His voice is very breathy and low. He sweeps his thumbs under Jaskier’s eyes, swiping away tears Jaskier didn’t even know he was shedding. “Jaskie - why are you  _ crying, damnit?”  _ Geralt mutters. Jaskier opens his eyes and tries not to laugh. Geralt is frowning quite severely, but seems more upset with himself than Jaskier. “I’m being  _ sensitive _ , like she said.”

“Like who said?” Jaskier asks. 

“...Yennefer,” Geralt mutters, eyes flicking away. Gods,  _ Yennefer _ had been giving Geralt advice on how to speak to Jaskier? What else can Jaskier say to that besides-

“Granny read the inscription on my ring,” Jaskier blurts out. Geralt stiffens. Hah! Payback, Jaskier thinks, is a bitch. Let’s see how Geralt likes his feelings put on display. Unless it was just to make the ring seem realistic, because then Jaskier still has a problem. Oh gods, why didn’t he think it was to make the ring seem  _ realistic _ , why is he only just realizing now…?

“And?” Geralt says. 

“...and?” Jaskier repeats. “And what?” Now he’s confused. 

“...did you. Did you like it?” Geralt drops his hands from Jaskier’s face and Jaskier wishes they had remained, because then Geralt would have felt the truly ridiculous smile that blossomed across Jaskier’s face in disbelief and relief.  _ That _ didn’t sound like someone who made a ring to be convincing. That sounded like someone who made a ring to say what they couldn’t say themselves. Jaskier can work with this, even if Geralt refuses to meet his eyes. 

“To my singing heart - the one who makes my heart sing,” Jaskier quotes. Geralt’s eyes stay firmly fixed somewhere above Jaskier’s shoulder. “You’re no poet, but that was… poetic.” Geralt’s eyes flick to him, hinting at astonishment with their imperceptible widening. “Do you mean it?” Jaskier asks. He’d have to ask sooner or later. Might as well put them both out of their misery and go for sooner. 

“Yes,” Geralt responds, face impassive. “You meant your words?”

“That I’m in love with you?” Jaskier repeats, just to see Geralt’s whole face twitch. How satisfying. “Of course I did. I don’t just blurt out lies to a sorceress who would be able to tell and then scorch me for it!” He folds his arms across his chest, defensive. “And I’m not fickle, if your next thought is that it won’t last. It’s been years. I still love you!” Jaskier bites the inside of his mouth, regretting how much he had just put on display. But it had been said and it couldn’t be unsaid. 

The words make Geralt’s face soften, though. Jaskier feels a bit better about that. 

“I wanted to apologize to you, that night,” Geralt says. Jaskier wonders what Geralt would have been apologizing for, since Jaskier had been the arse. “And then I heard that….” He steps close again. “I offered to play this role for you because I thought it the only chance I had to be near you,” Geralt admits. “I made you that ring, because I wanted you to have it. I wanted it to feel real, even if you never knew.” Geralt’s jaw clenches. “You  _ shouldn’t  _ know, really. At least Yen can protect herself if something happens because of me, but you-”

“You wouldn’t let anything happen to me!” Jaskier claims, grabbing Geralt’s forearms. He is absolutely certain about that, at least. 

“It’s not always up to me,” Geralt says, pain bright in his eyes. He grasps Jaskier as well. 

“Eventually, something will happen to me, even if that’s just my natural death,” Jaskier admits. It’s the truth, the inevitable truth. “And you’ll have Yennefer again.”

“Yes,” Geralt confirms, swallowing hard. “Does that bother you?”

“Not like it used to.” Jaskier shrugs. It doesn’t. If he gets to have Geralt now on the stipulation that Yennefer gets to have him later, when Jaskier isn’t even around anymore, why should he care? “She’s something else to you. I can’t and won’t stand in the way of that.”

“You understand too much,” Geralt tells him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jaskier says. He squeezes Geralt’s arms. “Not if I get to have this and it’s real. There are no spells here, Geralt, no wishes. Just one man confessing his love for another. Can you - can you do that?” He searches Geralt’s eyes. “Can you do that, for me? With me?”

“I’m not a man,” Geralt starts, but Jaskier doesn’t let him finish. 

“You already know how I feel about that.”

“Yes, I do,” Geralt admits. But there’s a smile creeping up on the edges of his mouth. “You’re a stubborn bard.”

“I know what I want,” Jaskier says, more emboldened with every word they exchange. “I want you. Just you. I know my reputation often precedes me, but if we were to be together, it would just be you.” It’s a promise. Jaskier holds up his hand, the ring glinting on his finger. “I take this seriously.” 

“It’s not like it hasn’t happened to me before,” Geralt says, “uh - infidelity, that is.” He gives a shrug that jostles the burden on his shoulders from the pain of being deceived and used like that. Jaskier feels something ugly rear its head inside him, burning hot. 

“Well that was very ugly and wrong of Yennefer to do,” Jaskier snaps, not playing with pretense. He knows it was her and he isn’t stupid. “I won’t. When I’m with  _ you _ , I’m  _ with _ you.” Geralt is silent. Maybe this is too much for him, maybe Jaskier has gone too far. He lets his hands slide off Geralt’s arms. “And if not, then that’s alright,” Jaskier insists even though it  _ isn’t _ , it’s not but he can pretend it is. Because he can’t expect Geralt to just want it all. With Jaskier. “Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to, I-”

“No, I…” Geralt reaches out to him, takes Jaskier’s hand in his, and pulls Jaskier close to him. “Stop moving so far,” Geralt grumbles. Jaskier laughs openly at that, voice bright. “I do. I want to touch you. I want to be near you. I want…” He presses their foreheads together. “I want all of it with you.” 

“All of it?”

“All of it,” Geralt confirms. He exhales. “I want you to wear that damned ring, and I want people to look at you and know they can’t touch you because you’re not theirs to touch.  _ I _ want to touch you. I want - I want you to touch  _ me. _ ”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, swallowing hard. 

“But I want to listen to you play by the fire, too. I want Ciri to sit and listen to you as I braid her hair. I want  _ you _ to braid my hair. I want to live with you and travel with you and fight with you and tell you to stop the playing when you’ve been at it for too long,” Geralt continues, unable, it seems, to stop. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, hands framing the witcher’s face. 

“And I want to stay in contact with Yennefer, yes, but there is more to me than her,” Geralt continues. “I want that to be you. I want my something more to be  _ you _ ,” Geralt insists, like it doesn’t make sense to him but he’s begging for it to make sense to Jaskier. “I want you. Destiny is not always enough to bring people together, there’s something else, something more.” Geralt looks into Jaskier’s eyes and says, “Maybe we don’t have destiny between us, maybe we do. But we definitely have whatever else is needed, we have that something more.”

_ It’s love, I think, _ Jaskier wants to tell him.  _ That something else, that something more is unadulterated, certain love. We do not doubt each other’s feelings or our own. _ But Jaskier doesn’t say that. 

“Alright,” Jaskier says, chuckling, shaking his head. “Then let me kiss you without pretense, now that we both know what we wan-”

Geralt doesn’t bother waiting for Jaskier to finish his thought. He presses their lips together and Jaskier hums in content, pushing closer, opening his mouth, plundering Geralt’s. Geralt’s grunts, the little moans at the back of his throat - they’re intoxicating, delicious. When Jaskier’s hands sneak down the front of Geralt’s pants and gently grasp him, it’s Geralt’s  _ mewl _ that has Jaskier biting the witcher’s lower lip and dragging the flesh of it between his teeth. 

“What was that?” Jaskier ponders aloud, licking the seam of Geralt’s mouth directly afterward. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt pants, breathless. 

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums, feeling more and more confident as they go. The room is warming from the fire, he can feel sweat dripping down his back, see it beading on Geralt’s pale forehead. “Let us to bed,” Jaskier says, turning them so he can back Geralt up until the backs of Geralt’s knees hit the mattress. He pushes Geralt down until the man is sitting, then drops to his knees, relishing Geralt’s sharp inhale. 

Oh, Jaskier is in his territory now. He just needs to poke and prod a bit now that he knows Geralt  _ wants _ him to. And wants  _ him _ , too. 

Jaskier unlaces Geralt’s boots and slides them slowly off his feet. He lets his fingers squeeze Geralt’s calves, lets his eyes flutter closed when Geralt’s hands fall to his hair. He looks up at Geralt, pleased that his pupils have gone very large and round, like a happy cat’s. 

“Take off your clothes?” Jaskier murmurs. He flutters his lashes at Geralt and the man swallows but nods his head. Jaskier stands and strips quickly to just his underclothes. Geralt does the same, tossing his wedding attire aside. It’s at this point that Jaskier climbs onto the bed, nodding for Geralt to do the same. Geralt sits up in the middle of the bed and grunts when Jaskier throws himself into Geralt’s lap, facing him. It’s so nice to feel their skin touching, the raised scars or the ones that make indents on Geralt’s skin gliding across Jaskier’s smooth counterpart. 

Jaskier slides his arms around Geralt’s neck, unties the band holding Geralt’s hair back, then runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair to undo the braid. Geralt’s hair is left crimped and wavy from being pulled back all day. Jaskier hums under his breath as he gently pushes on Geralt’s chest, pushing the man onto his back on the bed, his hair fanned out around him like a shimmering halo. It glints like silver in the firelight. Geralt’s hands settle on Jaskier’s hips where the bard straddles the witcher’s waist. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. 

“Yes?”

“You… are beautiful.”

“You’re one to talk,” Jaskier huffs. Can this really be happening? Jaskier thinks maybe he’s dreaming. But Geralt is hard and steady under his hands and thighs, in nothing but his underclothes and that witcher’s medallion rising and falling with Geralt’s chest. “You’re all… attractive and such.”

“Attractive and such?” Geralt scoffs, grinning. It really does transform his face when he does that. “You can do better than that.”

“Oh, so you  _ want _ me to compose?” Jaskier teases. “But only if it’s about you. Very well. Ahem.” He thinks for a moment, but Jaskier really  _ is _ very good at this. The words and tune come to him as if from a dream, and he begins to croon,  _ “And I saw you there, upon your chair, in the light of winter’s heir. Your golden eyes and silver hair, in the light of winter’s hei-” _

“Enough,” Geralt grumbles, bucking his hips, as though to dislodge Jaskier, but really only to get him to stop. Jaskier laughs, holding on. 

“How would you like to do this, then, sir witcher?” Jaskier purrs. He scratches his nails gently down the front of Geralt’s chest. “I quite like this position, but I’m open to ideas.”

To Jaskier’s immense and delighted surprise, Geralt nods his head and says, “I quite like this position as well. That is - if you don’t mind.”

Jaskier stares for a moment, then grins so wide his cheeks hurt. Who would have thought - a witcher allowing someone else to take the reins. Jaskier is half tempted to ask if Geralt had ever asked Yennefer to do this with him, but then he decides that honestly? He doesn’t care. This is about him and Geralt, about them making each other feel good. Yennefer can stay out of it. 

“I am delighted, sir witcher,” Jaskier murmurs, bending at the waist to press his mouth to Geralt’s. Geralt’s hands squeeze Jaskier’s waist as they kiss, fingers skimming the hem of his undergarments. “Do you want them off?” Jaskier whispers against Geralt’s mouth. The responding smile that presses against his lips is answer enough. 

Geralt still says, “How else are you going to put that appendage so praised in song to use?” 

Jaskier laughs aloud, pure joy and softness. It can’t get any better than this, he thinks. 

“You’ll have to take yours off too,” Jaskier insists. He winks. “Can you handle that?”

“For you, Jaskier,” Geralt says, already lifting his hips to shimmy out of the remainder of his clothes, “I think I can handle just about anything.”

The words light something hot but gentle in Jaskier’s stomach, and as he slips out of his underwear as well, he replies, “For you, Geralt, I think I could too.”


	8. Epilogue (Love's Worth Running To)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their bags are packed. Their words have been said. It's time to get back on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along for the lovely ride y'all! This Big Bang was an amazing experience and I cherish it. Thanks to [verobatto and the Geralt Jaskier Big Bang group and mods](https://geraltjaskierbigbang.tumblr.com/) for all the hard work they put into this - they were always there for me and I appreciate it!

“You won’t stay a bit longer?” Jaskier’s mother titters the next day.

He, Geralt, his parents, and Waleska are sitting at the dining room table, finishing breakfast. His mother had said goodbye to Hedwig and Lorenia in the early morning as they headed to their honeymoon destination, and she’s no doubt loathing having to do the same with her youngest. Already Jaskier’s and Geralt’s bags are packed and servants have moved things onto the cart they came in on, waiting out front with their horses tethered. Ciri is in the garden with Zefyrina and the other children, having one last round of fun under Dietrich’s watchful eye and saying their goodbyes. Jaskier had given Waleska the address of the tavern he used for mail, so that Ciri and Zefyrina could write to each other if they wanted to. He has no doubt their parting is going to be teary-eyed and that the two will want some way to stay in contact. 

As it is, Jaskier fears his whole family is going to want to see them all more often. With Geralt being glued to his side this morning, hands always on some part of Jaskier, and his mood softer than Jaskier’s ever seen it, there’s no doubt they’re leaving a good impression on everyone before they leave. It’ll be the image his family conjures up every time they think of Jaskier and his  _ own  _ family - and he gets a  _ rush _ thinking of Geralt and Ciri, and even by extension  _ Yennefer _ , as his own family. Jaskier knows they’ll be invited back, and quite often if his mother gets her way.

“We have duties to tend to,” Jaskier explains, hand in Geralt’s over the table, though the man is sitting so close to his side, one would think the hand holding wouldn’t be necessary to denote their closeness. 

“A witcher’s work is never done,” Geralt adds.

“Besides,” Yennefer states, walking in with two serving girls on her trail. The two are fawning over Yennefer, bringing her bags with large smiles and batting their lashes like they’re in the schoolyard. Yennefer winks to them both and sends them off. “Ciri will be starting some schooling under me, and I’d rather we started before the cold weather gets in.”

“Jaskier, you didn’t mention Ciri was gifted with magic!” his father gasps, eyes wide and delighted. Jaskier isn’t too sure where this is coming from on Yennefer’s end, but by the sudden stiffness at his side, it must be something she’s already discussed with Geralt and they’ve agreed to. Still, Geralt doesn’t seem to be as exuberant about it as Yennefer. 

“Yes, well,” Jaskier mutters and trails off. 

“We’ll see how it goes,” Geralt says, tempering Yennefer’s statement. Jaskier knows without looking that the two of them are glaring at each other. Besides the sudden tension in the air, his parents and sister look a bit uncomfortable at the display, none knowing what to say. Jaskier rolls his eyes. 

“Enough of the posturing, you two,” Jaskier says. He squeezes Geralt’s hand and when he finally gets the witcher to look at him, Jaskier smiles, gentle and honest. The lines on Geralt’s face soften and he nods, relenting. “We’ll see how it goes, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, looking around Geralt’s hulking form to where Yennefer sits on his other side, down their end of the table. She raises a brow at their tightly clasped hands but then shrugs, letting it go. 

“Yes, we will,” she responds. 

The rest of breakfast goes by quickly, his mother going on and on about the holiday season coming up, dropping hints that if they’re available, a visit wouldn’t go amiss. Jaskier nods along but knows they’ll be too busy to come up this time around. Though, maybe for once they could winter in Lettenhove with Ciri, instead of in Kaer Morhen? He’ll have to discuss that with Geralt at some point in the future. For now, he enjoys his family while he can. 

They end up leaving around noontime, Granny coming to the front steps to see them out as she had just woken up. 

“These old bones aren’t made for the party life anymore,” she complains to Jaskier, one hand on her aching hip, the other hand waving at a serving boy taking too long to bring her her walking stick. “Don’t be a stranger, Julian,” she says, as he bends to kiss her leathery cheek. “Visit the cottage some time.”

“I’ll make a point of it,” Jaskier says. He glances over to where his father is shaking Geralt’s hand and blathering on about how wonderful it had been. Jaskier’s mother is squeezing the life out of Ciri, who still has her eyes on Zefyrina standing on the stone steps, looking a bit wilted, surrounded by her parents and brothers in various states of waving goodbye. Yennefer is already in the cart, looking at her nails and waiting for them. 

“Take care of that one,” Granny says. Jaskier looks down to her. 

“Pardon?”

“Your Geralt. Something feels different with you two. But it feels good,” she adds. “So, take care of him.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says, a hand over his heart. “Of course, I will. I love him.”

“And he loves you,” Granny says, nodding her head sagely. The serving boy finally brings her stick and she takes it, shooing him off. 

“I know he does,” Jaskier responds, smiling widely again. He thinks of it, every now and then, and a thrill goes through him. Geralt loves him. They’ll do things their own way and move about life as well as they can. “See you soon, Granny,” he says, walking down the steps and away from her with a wave. She huarumphs and waves back, not entirely convinced. 

Jaskier goes to kiss all his nephews and his niece, chucking a frowning Zefyrina on the chin. 

“Lighten up, Zefka,” he tells her. “You two can write and I’ll make sure we come around more often,” Jaskier says, hoping he can deliver on that particular promise. 

“I know,” the little girl responds. “It’s just been so nice!” She sighs and hugs him. “Goodbye, Uncle Julian.”

“Goodbye my only niece,” he teases, letting her go. She has a smile on her face now, so his mission has been accomplished. He hates to see her so sad. 

It seems Jaskier’s mother has finished with Ciri, as the girl is in the cart beside Yennefer, snuggled into the sorceress’ side for comfort, looking a bit morose still. Geralt meets him at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the front of the manor, and his smile is soft and still so blinding to Jaskier. Geralt looking happy will forever be his favorite sight to see. 

“Ready?” Geralt asks, linking their hands casually, as though he can’t bear to be away from Jaskier for too long. That may very well be the case, Jaskier thinks. He wouldn’t mind if it were. 

“Ready,” Jaskier agrees. He turns to his parents, where they stand on the last step. He bows, bending at the waist. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord and lady.”

“Oh, posh. Get out of here, Julek,” his mother guffaws, but he can see a gleam in her eye and wonders if she’ll allow herself to cry for them tonight. 

“Come back soon,” his father says, stopping to clear his throat. Jaskier definitely knows his father will cry for them, at least. Jaskier and Geralt turn to climb up onto the cart.

“And take care of my little boy, Geralt,” his mother says to their retreating backs. Even as Geralt boosts him onto the cart, Jaskier turns back, scandalized. 

“Mother!” he calls, scooting over in front so Geralt can sit beside him and take the horses’ reins, “I’m not a child - I’m his  _ husband!”  _ The nerve, the  _ audacity _ of this woman!

“But you’re  _ my  _ child,” she calls as Geralt begins to turn them to the estate’s front gate. 

“I’ll take as much care as I can,” Geralt calls back, grinning at Jaskier. Jaskier gapes, then smacks him on the arm. It doesn't do much - Geralt is too solid for Jaskier’s little fists to do much damage. 

“I’ll write to you soon, Zefka!” Ciri calls, pulling away from Yennefer, turning in her seat, and waving. 

“You’d better!” Zefyrina yells back, pulling away from her mother’s skirts. 

And then they’re through the gates, out onto the main road, and his family is a speck on the horizon behind them. Geralt takes the reins in one hand, Jaskier’s hand in the other, and sets them off at a leisurely pace. They’re all silent for the first few minutes of the journey through the forest to the nearest town. Once there, they’ll decide their next step. 

“So,” Yennefer says behind them. “Why are you two still holding hands?” Jaskier hears shifting and suddenly, Ciri's head has popped up in the space between himself and Geralt where they sit up front. 

“Oh,” she says, spying their hands with fingers entwined and palms clasped. “So you are.”

“Sit back before you fall out, Ciri,” Geralt reprimands. She sits back but only a bit. 

“So?” Yennefer asks. Gods, Jaskier can hear the  _ smugness _ in her voice. 

“So?” Ciri parrots back. Jaskier is going to have a  _ long _ talk with Yennefer about the type of influence she is on their daughter, good grief. 

“First, I would like to thank everyone for making that experience as painless as possible for me,” Jaskier starts. He lets go of Geralt’s hand and twists in his seat so he can see both the women behind him and still be able to address Geralt. 

“Honestly, I can’t believe that actually worked,” Geralt scoffs. 

“Me neither,” Jaskier admits. “But thank the gods it did.”

“It’s all the same to me. Your family paid me for my services, after all,” Yennefer says, ruining Jaskier’s  _ sincere _ gratitude. 

“I had fun!” Ciri says. “It was a nice break.” Her smile is still a bit sad, but Jaskier is sure that once she’s had a few days to process, she’ll be right as rain. 

“Yes, back to training,” Geralt says. 

“And magic tutoring,” Yennefer throws in. 

“Ugh,” Ciri groans, leaning back in her spot, throwing her arms into the air. 

“At least I don’t have anything for you to do?” Jaskier says. Ciri levels him with a look, eyes scrunched up, nose wrinkled, mouth in a pout - she’s not impressed. “Worth a shot, love. You can always escape the overbearing parents by hanging out with me.” He winks and it gets her to laugh. 

“We’re not overbearing,” Geralt growls. Then, a bit unsure and softer, “Are we?” Yennefer shrugs, not caring either way. 

“You’re fine, love. I was teasing,” Jaskier laughs, reaching out to brush some of Geralt’s hair out of his face. 

“What is that?” Yennefer says, pointing to Jaskier’s hand in Geralt’s hair. 

“My hand?” Jaskier asks, confused. What is she on about? 

“No, on your hand.”

He looks. Oh. “My ring?”

“The fake wedding band?” Ciri clarifies, her own eyebrow raised in question. Yennefer’s got the same expression on her face. Jaskier watches in horror as the two of them start smiling slowly, at the same rate. It’s a bit freaky. “You’re still wearing it.”

“How  _ interesting,” _ Yennefer drawls. Her violet eyes are  _ laughing _ at him, Jaskier knows it! “Geralt, yours is still on too. And I wonder… did you two have a good  _ talk _ last night, after the reception?”

“Oh, they had a talk?” Ciri asks, actually curious and not  _ at all _ picking up on the innuendo Yennefer had been laying on thickly. “What about?”

“Yes, boys, do  _ tell _ ,” Yennefer chips in. 

“Alright,  _ enough _ ,” Geralt cuts in. He turns to Jaskier, golden eyes wide, maybe in a bit of panic. Does he not  _ want  _ to tell them? Or is that he doesn't know how to say it?

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, only briefly worried. 

“Could you - uh - explain?” Geralt asks, voice pitched low, though Yennefer and Ciri are right behind them, so it doesn’t really matter. “You’re better with words.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, a bit of relief flooding his system. “Of course.” He turns to the awaiting women, one smug the other curious. “I am in love with Geralt.”

“We know,” Yennfer and Ciri say in unison. They turn to each other and giggle. 

Jaskier frowns.  _ Rude _ . 

“And Geralt is in love with me,” he continues. 

“We know that, too,” Ciri laughs. 

“Honestly, boys,” Yennefer quips, winking at the young girl and making her laugh all the more. 

“Alright, alright!” Jaskier yelps. “And now  _ we _ both know. And I think we’ll be carrying on like this for quite some time.” There. That was it, in a nutshell. Beside him, Geralt leans into his side, nuzzles Jaskier’s temple with his lips without taking his eyes from the road. “Sounds good?” Jaskier whispers to Geralt. 

“Sounds good,” Geralt replies, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile. 

“So… the rings stay?” Ciri asks, pointing to Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s ringed hand with his own and squeezes it. In the sunlight, their rings glimmer, Jaskier’s stone sparkling. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says, smiling himself. “The rings stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful beta made a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7kOZJIGwztff1Fz4pW6p7I?si=Mq1X1jeiQI2nM3jELTM9DA) for this fic! Go check it out. Most, if not all, the songs in this fic are there~


End file.
